5fie  HART  SERIES 


LIL,  THE 
DANCING  GIRL 


MISS  CAROLINE  HART 


HART  SERIES  NUMBER  3 


Paolished  by 

THE  ARTHUR  WESTBROOK  COMPANY 
CLEVELAND,  U.  S.  A. 


V Printed  in  the  "uVited  'States  of  America 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Chapter  I  »p.*»*n«»5 

Chapter  II           .»««»•«»  11 

Chapter  III            .•••>•»••  18 

Chapter  IV                  24 

Chapter  V               «        »        •  31 

Chapter  VI -  37 

Chapter  VII           *«,.,..««.  43 

Chapter  VIII     .                 50 

Chapter  IX             ».,.«*...,,.  56 

Chapter  X           «...««»..  62 

Chapter  XI              ••        f        •»«»•*  6P 

Chapter  XIT       -  75 

Chapter  XIII -  81 

Chanter  XIV »  87* 

Chapter  XV 93 

Chapter  XVI               99 

Chapter  XVII        i.       i       •>•••••  105 

Chapter  XVIII           -  114 

Chapter  XIX          -                         119 

Chapter  XX      V      •«*>>••  125 

Chapter  XXI 132 

Chapter  XXII 139 

Chapter  XXIII 145 

Chapter  XXIV  -..»»«»»  151 

Chapter  XXV         r      «•«••««  157 

Chapter  XXVI 163 

Chapter  XXVII     ..».»».»  169 

Chapter  XXVIII 175 

Chapter  XXIX -.182 

Chapter  XXX             „*»*-•*  191 

Chapter  XXXI ««196 

Chanter  XXXII         «.«.««.  202 

Chapter  XXXIII  •,«•••*••  209 

Chapter  XXXIV       •««»»«.-  215 

Chapter  XXXV     ••••••»«  221 

Chapter  XXXVI       ««...«-  227 

Chapter  XXXVII 234 


970409 


LJL,  THE  DANCING  QRL' 


-BY- 

CAROUNE  HART 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  little  house  was  always  in  order,  but  it  seemed 
that  not  a  partkle  of  dust  rested  upon  anything  on 
this  great  day.  Everything  looked  new  and  singu- 
larly tidy  in  the  parlor,  where  the  chairs  were  placed 
Closely  against  the  wall;  the  highbacked  sofa  stood 
straight  and  forbidding  in  its  corner;  the  table  in 
the  center  of  the  floor  so  exact  that  the  distance  must 
have  been  measured  from  every  side,  and  its  books 
lying  diagonally  upon  each  corner  with  the  lamp,  clear 
as  crystal  in  polish,  in  the  middle.  The  rnelodeon 
stood  open  in  one  corner,  but  even  its  stops  looked 
the  reverse  of  inviting. 

The  windows  were  open,  and  outside  the  sun* 
i^ght  lay  in  great  rifts  about  the  garden,  where  the 
hollyhocks  and  sunflowers  nodded  lazily;  but  evea 
the  flowers  had  a  prim,  set  look  that  was  not  usua!  to 
them  in  other  places.  Not  that  there  were  many  of 
them.  Old  Jonathan  Esmonde  did  not  believe  in  them. 
Their  gay  coloring  looked  worldly  and  altogether 
too  frivolous  for  this  wicked  world,  and  so  old  Jona- 
than not  only  did  not  encourage  their  cultivation, 


O  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL1 

v/ould  not  permit  it.  The  hollyhock  and  sunflowen 
he  made  an  exception  of,  however,  and  a  few  of  them 
glowed  in  the  garden,  where  the  sun  beat  down,  ua- 
reproved. 

There  was  not  even  a  balcony  around  the  old  coun«; 
house.    That  seemed  to  Jonathan  too  much  liks 
comfort  fpiyth&:life,  and  the  new  furniture,  whicKi 
stiff  and  primTloGrkjng  as  it  could  be  purchased 
•^v6u:d--neY^rhay,e. teen  bought  if  he  had  had  his  way* 
But  in  this  instance  he  did  not,  which  was  a  most 
isolated  exception. 

"Lillian  sent  me  the  money,"  Mrs.  Esmonde  urged: 
"and  now  that  she  is  coming  home,  we  ought  to  have 
things  fixed  up  a  bit  for  her,  you  know,  father.  She 
will  like  to  see  the  new  furniture;  and  it  is  her  owrs 
money." 

I  don't  like  it!"  exclaimed  old  Jonathan,  drawing 
•;ro\vs  together.  "It  is  strange  to  me  where  Lil- 
lian gets  the  money.  I  cair t  afford  it,  and  I've  got 
as  likely  a  farm  as  any  in  the  neighborhood.  Its 
strange  where  a  chit  of  a  girl  like  that  gets  th* 
money !" 

He  repeated  the  words  half  musingly,  but  the  lit- 
tle creature  who  had  absorbed  most  of  his  ideas  oti 
primness  and  economy  bridled  at  once.  '-\ 

"She  works  for  it!1'  she  cried  indignantly.  "Yui 
shall  not  speak  of  our  Lillian,  Jonathan  Esmonde,  a« 
if  she  was  not  an  honest  girl!  You  know  as  well  as 
I  do  that  she  teaches  a  day  school  in  a  big  city,  and 
that  she  gets  sixty  dollars  a  month  fur  dom'  it!" 
Umph !"  muttered  Jonathan.  "I  never  could  se*i 

|  sense  in  panmn'  out  so  much  money  fur  boofc  fan- 
tn',^ 


LIL,   THE    DANCING-G1RI,  7 

"Well,  if  you  can't,  other  folks  does ;  and  our  Lil- 
lian is  a  good  girl.  She  sent  me  the  money  for  the  fur- 
niture, father,  and  it  ought  to  be  bought/' 
i  "Well,  buy  it,  then!  But,  mind  you,  I  don't  ap- 
prove uv  it  at  all,  and  you  remember  that!  I  don't 
fcelieve  in  extravagance,  and  I  don't  believe  in  en- 

!  couragin'  her  to  spend  money  fur  nothinV 

But  poor  little   Mrs.   Esmonde  had   obtained  the 

^concession,  and  that  was  all  she  desired;  so  she  let 
the  remainder  of  the  speech  alone,  and  she  and  Amy 
went  to  "town"  and  had  the  pleasure  of  buying  the 
new  furniture. 

And  now  to-day  Lillian  was  coming  home.  Even 
old  Jonathan  was  putting  on  a  clean  shirt  in  honor 
of  the  occasion.  Mrs.  Esmonde  had  been  ready  for 
hours,  and  was  bustling  about  the  kitchen  making 
sure  that  everything  was  ready  which  she  remembered 
Lillian  had  liked  in  the  old  days.  She  wore  a  clean 
ealico  dress,  with  a  stiff  linen  collar  at  her  throat,  and 
an  apron  that  half  covered  her.  Her  hair  was  part- 
ed in  the  middle,  and  smoothed  back  behind  her  ears, 
W  ith  not  a  hair  out  of  place. 

She  came  out  of  the  kitchen  and  went  into  the  par- 

t  lur  to  make  sure  that  all    was  right   there  as  a  girl 

,  came  down  the  stairs. 

She  was  a  peculiar-looking  girl.    Her  hair  was  a 

I  (reddish  gold,  such  as  the  belle  of  our  modern  days 
ervy — hair  that  would  not  consent  to  being  smoothed 
back  after  the  manner  of  her  mother,  but  insisted 
•upon  breaking  into  little  rebellious  curls  that  were 
the  despair  of  her  father  Her  eyes  were  dark  as 
midnight,  and  contained  an  expression  of  constant 
fain  and  sadness  &at  would  have  touched  the  coldest 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

heart.  Her  face  was  beautiful,  but  the  little  form 
was  twisted  and  bent,  and  she  held  on  with  both 
hands  to  the  rough  balustrade  of  the  stair-way  in 
her  painful  descent. 

The  prim  face  of  the  woman  relaxed  somewhat  as 
she  gazed  upon  the  child.  j 

'Why  didn't  you  wait  until  father  or  some  one  l 
could  help  you,  Amy !"  she  asked,  more  gently  than  ; 
she  ever  spoke  to  any  one  else.  "You  know  how  it  al-  I 
.ways  makes  you  suffer  to  come  down  by  yourself." 
"I   couldn't  wait!"   answered  Amy,   feverishly.   "I 
thought  she  might  come  and— and  me  be  upstairs. 
She  would  think  I  wasn't  glad  to  see  her,  then." 

The  woman  tenderly  passed  her  hand  across  the 
fceautiful  hair. 

"No,  she  wouldn't;  our  Lillian  loves  you,  Amy." 
"I  know  she  does!"  cried  the  girl,  eagerly.  "She 
loves  us  aH.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know?  She  works 
from  morning  until  night  there  in  the  school— and 
it  must  be  awfully  hard  on  her — just  to  send  us  the 
money.  You  know  how  Lillian  hates  to  be  shut  up 
from  morning  until  night.  She  never  could  stand  it 
here  at  home;  she  must  always  be  out.  She  used  to 
long  for  life,  she  said— long  for  life  and  action.  I" 
know  it  is  hard  upon  her,  mother." 

"Yes;  but  our  Lily  is  a  good  girl.  .We  must  all 
do  something  for  our  living." 

"Not  I,  mother — not  I !  It  seems  to  me  sometimes 
as  if  every  one  of  God's  creatures  is  permitted  to  do 
something  except  me.  I  must  stay  here  and  drag 
and  suffer,  drag  and  suffer,  until — " 

There  were  tears  of  rebellion  choking  tke  pretty. 
voice  when  Mrs.  Esmonde  interrupted : 


LIL,    THE    DANClNG-GIRLj  Qj 

"Hark !  there  are  the  wheels." 

But  it  was  not  so  much  the  rumbling  of  the  wheels 
that  she  heard,  but  the  creaking  of  the  old  spring- 
*  wagon  which  had  been  sent  to  the  depot  to  meet  Lil- 
"  lian. 

Amy  toiled  painfully  to  the  door,  which  Mrs.  Es- 
monde  had  flung  open,  and  stood  there  with  the  light 
breeze  blowing  her  hair  about  her  flushed,  eager  face. 
She  knew  exactly  when  the  wagon  came  in  at  the  gate, 
iwhich  she  could  not  see,  and  she  dragged  herself 
wearily  out  into  the  garden  and  stood  there. 

Lillian  was  not  long  in  coming.  She  walked  quick- 
ly, and  flung  her  arms  lovingly  about  her  mother's 
neck  almost  before  the  little  woman  realized  that 
she  had  come  at  all.  Then  she  threw  herself  upon 
Amy,  passionately,  straining  the  little  creature  to  her 
heart,  and  kissing  the  upturned  face  again  and  again 
before  she  released  the  now  smiling  child. 

"And  where  is  father?''  she  asked,  eagerly,  turn- 
ing to  her  mother.  "Isn't  he  here  to  see  me?" 

"He  will  be  in  a  minute.  But  turn  around  and  let 
me  look  at  you." 

The  girl  turned  to  her  with  a  laugh,  and  stood 
there  silently  for  a  moment. 

She  was  like  Amy  in  feature,  save  that  her  hair 

was  darker.     But  there  were  the  same  great,   dark 

j|  eyes,  the  same   sensitive  mouth,  the  same   exquisite 

complexion,  but —    Well,   there  all   the  resemblance 

ended. 

She  was  dressed  plainly  in  a  traveling  costume ; 
but  about  her  there  was  an  inexplicable  some  thing 
i — an  atmosphere,  a  manner — that  stamped  her  as 
far  from  them  as  the  poles  are  from  each  other.  In 


-10  LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL 

spite  of  the  plainness  of  her  attire,  she  was  as  styl- 
ish, as  well  groomed,  as  chic  as  the  most  admired 
of  society  belles.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
country-bred  young  Miss  about  her,  and  Mrs.  Es- 
monde  seemed  to  realize  that  as  she  gazed. 

"You  have  changed,  Lillian,"  she  said,  slowly; 
"you  don't  look  like  you  did  at  all." 

The  girl  colored  slightly. 

"Nonsense,  mother!"  she  cried,  gayly.  "My  hair 
is  exactly  the  same  shade,  my  eyes  and  my  com- 
plexion are  not  altered ;  I  am  the  same  in  everything." 

The  good  woman  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  answered,  firmly.  "I  don't  say  but  you 
look  better  for  the  change,  but  it's  there,  all  the  same. 
I  can't  tell  you ;  I  don't  know  enough,  maybe.  It  ain't 
in  the  hair  and  eyes  and  complexion;  but  it's  there 
ain't  it,  Amy  ?" 

"She's  the  most  beautiful  girl   in  all  the  world, 
and  she  always  was  the  most  beautiful!"  cried  the 
child  passionately,  throwing  her  arms  about  her  sister 
again.     "Oh,  Lillian,  it  has  been  so  lonely  without 
you,  dear — so  bitterly  lonely!    And  now  that  I  have 
you,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  ever  let  you  go  again!  f 
There  used  to  be  something  to  do  when  you  were  i 
here;  and  if  there  wasn't,  you  invented  something; 
but  now  the  days  do  nothing  but  drag  into  night,  and 
the  nights  do  nothing  but  drag  into  day.     But  you 
won't  go  again — you  won't  go,  will  you,  Lily?     Or,  * 
if  you  do,  you  will  take  me  with  you  ?" 

The  girl's  face  change3  curiously.  A  quick  flush 
mounted  to  the  temples,  then  receded,  leaving  her 
paler  than  before;  there  was  a  troubled  light  in  her 
eyes,  and  she  bent  her  head  to  hide  their  expression 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  iff 

frovi    her    sister    and    her   mother    as    she    tenderly; 
stroked  Amy's  hair. 

"We  won't  talk  of  that  now,  dear/'  she  whispered, 
"I  must  see  father." 
;      The  child  glanced  up  eagerly. 

"And  be  sure  you  make  him  let  us  go  to  town  to- 

Ijmorrow!"   she  cried,   half  breathlessly.     'There's  to 

j  be  a  fair  in  the  Methodist  church.     I  never  attended 

a  fair  in  my  life,  Lillian,  and  they  say  this  one  is  to 

be  grand.     Be  sure  you  make  him  let  us  go,  won't 

you  r" 

The  elder  girl  nodded,  her  cyc^  filling  with  tears. 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  had  lived  the  greater 
part  of  her  life  in  that  family,  it  seemed  a  strange 
thing  to  her  that  her  sister  should  really  take  an  in- 
terest in  church  fairs;  but  she  whispered  brightly: 

"You  shall  go;  rest  easy  about  that     Sh!  there 

beui" 


CHAPTER  II. 


The  "town"  to  which  Amy  Esmonde  had  referred, 
and  which  was  always  spoken  of  in  a  way  that  was 
most  indefinite  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  consisted  of 
perhaps  eight  hundred  inhabitants,  and  was  by  no 
means  what  is  termed  "flourishing"  at  that.  There 
was  no  business  to  speak  of.  " Storekeepers"  sat 
around  outside  on  boxes  and  barrels  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  day,  their  principal  occupation  being 
whittling  sticks  or  chewing  toothpicks. 

X  church  fair,  therefore,  was  looked  upon  as  the 


12  LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL 

greatest  possible  dissipation,  and  the  little  frame 
structure  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity  dur- 
ing the  day  and  evening  of  the  fair. 

Pretty,    bright-cheeked    country    damsels,    in    their  * 
beribboned  lawns,  flitted  in  and  out  of  the  throrigs,| 
and  even  though  there  were  evidences  of  perspira4 
tion  and  weariness,  there  was  not  one    of  them  but  * 
would  have  told  you  she  was  having  "just  the  love* 
liest  time  that  ever  could  be  imagined." 

It  was  upon  that  scene  that  Lillian  Esmonde  gazed, 
scarcely  seeing  the  old  friends  that  flocked  about 
her,  and  answering  their  never-ending  questions  In 
a  vague  sort  of  way,  endeavoring  to  conceal  the  shiv* 
ers  that  ran  over  her. 

"Is  it  possible/'  she  queried,  mentally,  "that  I  ever 
could  have  been  interested  in  such  things  as  this? 
Amy's  eyes  are  sparkling  as  mine  never  did  under. 
a  r'lass  of  champagne,  and —  Great  heavens !  I  won- 
der what  these  people  would  say  to  a  night  at  the — • 
Pouf!  what  am  I  saying?  This  is  a  lime  to  for* 
get  all  that.  Oh,  if  I  only  could  for  just  half  an 
hour!  If  I  could  only  be  the  simple-hearted  country 
girl  that  I  was  two  little  years  ago!  But  would  I, 
even  if  I  could?" 

She  laughed  slightly.  There  was  just  a  tiny  strain 
of  bitterness  and  cynicism  in  it,  but  the  simple-mind- 
ed country  folk  did  not  hear  that  They  never  read 
between  the  lines. 

"It  must  be  right  hard  on  ye,  now  ain't  it?"  Mrs, 
Stout  had  been  saying.  "I  don't  think  I  could  ever 
bear  to  be  a-settin'  all  day  long  a-teachin'  children, 
They  air  so  thick-headed,  the  most  uv  'em." 

It  was  then  that  Lillian   la 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  13 

1  have  not  found  it  so/'  she  answered  "It  seerns 
to  me  that  learning  comes  .naturally  enough  to  these 
people  whom  I  have  tried  to  teach.  I  rather  think 

*  I  have  been  the  one  to  learn/' 

];      Mrs.   Stout  looked  at  her  a  trifle   dubiously,  and 

I  sighed. 

v,     "Lillian    is     changed!"     she     muttered,     mentally. 

i  "There  ain't  no  doubt  uv  that.  She's  grow'd  to  be 
a  fine  young  lady,  but — well,  old  Jonathan  Esmonde 
ain't  to  be  envied,  /  don't  think." 

After  a  little  pause,  she  exclaimed  aloud: 
"La!  there  comes  the  Langfords!     Now,  I  wondef 
what  under  the  sun  fetched  them  here." 

"Who  are  the  Langfords?"  asked  Lillian,  more 
for  the  purpose  of  making  conversation  than  any- 
thing else. 

"Ain't  you  heard?     Why,  they're  the  new  swells 

'  that's  took  the  old  Breckenridge  farm — bought  it, 
they  say.  They  only  stay  there  fur  the  summer,  and 
have  the  house  full  of  company  all  the  time.  Fur 
iny  part,  I'd  think  they'd  be  eat  outen  house  an'  home. 
They  go  to  the  Episcopal  church  when  they  go  at 
all.  There  ain't  nobody  around  here  as  likes  "em 
much.  Nobody  dcn't  seem  to  be  good  enough  fur 

,  'em.    That's  Miss  Langford  a-gettin'  outen  that  there 

Icontraphsion  now.  The  Lord  knows  what  you  call 
it." 
Lillian  was  standing  outside  the  door  of  the  church 
under  the  shade  of  a  great  old  oak-tree.  The  end  of 
h^.r  white  parasol  was  stuck  into  the  ground  at  her 
feet.  Her  eyes  had  wandered  listlessly  toward  the 
party  which  was  drawing:  up  before  the  church,  but 


U4  LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

as  she  looked,  her  expression  changed  to  one  ef  in- 
terest. 

The  young  lady  to  whom  Mrs.  Stout  had  referred 
.-was  undeniably  handsome.  She  was  of  the  empress 
type,  rather  large  and  commanding.  Her  eyes  were  I 
gray,  her  hair  dark,  her  carriage  superb.  She  wa? 
gowned  in  an  organdie  lawn  that  was  not  intended 
to  be  overpowering  in  its  elegance,  and  yet  there  was 
something  so  different  in  its  appearance  from  those 
surrounding  her,  that  it  was  .like  a  Worth  silk  beside 
a  cotton  dress. 

Beside  her  was  a  man  in  white  flannels,  a  tall,  dark 
man  with  a  face  full  of  passionate  beauty,  and  yet  a 
strong,  well-chiseled  face,  a  man  who  might  have  been 
taken  for  a  poet  one  moment  and  a  soldier  the  next. 

'That's  one  of  the  visitors,"  Mrs.  Stout  exclaimed, 
as  he  leaped  to  the  ground  and  put  up  his  hands  to 
assist  Miss  Langford. 

There  was  a  smile  in  his  eyes  as  he  lifted  her  care- 
fully beside  him  that  Lillian  saw  even  at  that  distance, 
and  an  expression  of  even  greater  interest  dawned 
in  her  eyes. 

"Sweethearts !"  she  murmured,  below  her  breath. 
"This  promises  better  than  I  thought."  (\ 

At  that  moment  Miss  Langford  evidently  caught 
fcight  of  her,  for  she  started  slightly,  then  looked 
puzzled.  She  evidently  said  something  to  her  com- 
panion, for  he  too  glanced  in  Lillian's  direction.  He 
said  something  below  his  breath,  then  looked  again. 

A  burning  flush  crept  from  Lillian's  throat  to 
brow,  and  her  eyes  fell. 

"Is  it  possible  that  she  has  recognized  me?"  was  the 


LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL  TJ 

thought  that  flashed  through  her  brain.    "Is  it  possi- 
ble that—" 

t  she  flung'  up  her  head  defiantly  and  put  the 
thought  from  her  as  the  two  passed  into  the  building, 
here  are  others  of  the  party/'  Mrs.  Stout  whis- 
j.    "That  feller  in  front  there  is  Miss  Langford's 
(brother;  Clinton,  I  think  his  name  is.    And  that  one 
'behind  is  another  visitor;  and  the  young  lady  is  visit- 
in1,  too.    I  declare,  they  must  be  worth  a  mint  o'  money 
t'  nand  it !    City  folks  thinks  them  in  the  country  kin 
stard  sponging  furever,  I  reckin!" 

:nost  before  the  remarks  had  ceased,  Miss  Lang- 
lord  had  come  to  the  door  again,  accompanied  by  the 
gentleman  and  Mrs.  Marsh,  a  tall,  angular  woman, 
the  mother  of  six  children,  but  who  looked  more  like 
on  o!d  maid  than  a  matron. 

"Lillian!  Lillian  Esmonde,  I  say,  come  here!"  she 
crieJ,  loudly.  "Miss  Langford  wants  to  know  you, 
an'  I'm  sure  the  wish  is  mutual/' 

She  smiled  affably,  as  if  pleased  with  herself  and 
the  successful  speech  she  had  made;  then,  as  Lillian 
joined  her,  she  said: 

iss  Langford,  this  is  Miss  Esmonde,  the  darter 
wv  ole  Jonathan  Esmonde.  She  outgrowed  our  little 
town  of  Burton,  and  went  away  to  teach  school  in 
New  York.  She's  done  come  back  a  fine  lady  now, 
and  one  I'm  sure  Jonathan  Esmonde  ought  to  be  proud 
of." 

Lillian's  cheeks  flamed  again,  but  there  was  a  merry 
twinkle  in  Miss  Langford's  eyes  as  she  put  out  her 
hand  cordially. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you,  Miss  Esmonde!"  she  ex- 
claimed, lightly.  "I  quite  agree  with  Mrs.  Marsh 


-  j5  LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIKL 

about  Jonathan  Esmonde's  pride.  Allow  me  to  intro- 
duce my  friend,  will  you  not?  Miss  Esmonde,  Mr. 
Suniner." 

She  glanced  into  the  handsome  eyes  above  her  and 
bowed,  noting  the  puzzled  expression  in  them,  and 
shrinking  somewhat  for  a  moment,  only  to  straighten 
herself  with  an  assumption  of  indifference. 

"Somehow  Miss  Esmonde's  face  is  familiar  to  me,"f 
exclaimed  Sumner,  regarding  her  with  interest.  "IaN 
it  not  possible  that  we  have  met  before  ?" 

"I  believe  not,"  answered  Lillian,  her  voice  cool  and 
dainty.  "I  have  never  entered  the  'social  swim'  of 
JsTew  York.  I  presume  you  are  from  New  York." 

"Oh,  yes/'  returned  Miss  Langford.  "We  live  there 
in  winter.  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  I  had  seen 
you;  but,  of  course,  it  was  only  a  resemblance  of  some 
sort  It  is  horrid  bad  for  me  to  see  resemblances; 
but  one  can't  always  help  it,  you  know.  Are  you  sell- 
ing anything  to-day,  Miss  Esmonde,  or  only,  like  our- 
selves, purchasers?" 

"My  sister  has 'a  flower-table,"  she  replied.  "'I  may 
assist  her  when  she  grows  tired!" 

"Let  us  go  and  buy  her  out,  then  her  task  will  be 
completed,"  laughed  Sumner.  "It  will  also  save  you 
later  in  the  day." 

"There  are  Clinton  and  the  others,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Langford.  "Let  us  wait  for  them." 

They  came  up  at  that  moment,  and  were  presented 
to  Lillian. 

"Come,"  cried  Miss  Langford,  gayly ;  "we  are  going 
to  buy  Miss  Esmonde  off  from  making  a  martyr  of 
herself  selling,  so  that  she  can  make  one  of  herself 


LIU    THE    DANCING-GIRL  I# 

Children  of  ourselves  and  eat  ice-cream  until  we  can't 
tat  any  more." 

4'I  craw  the  line  at  eating  ice-cream!"  exclaimed 
Clinton  Langford  lazily. 

"Very  well,"  cried  his  sister,  indifferently.  "Then 
you  may  pay  for  what  the  rest  of  us  eat.  Come  along, 
Miss  Esmonde;  show  us  where  your  sister's  table  is." 

They  entered  the  church  together,  and  Lillian  led 
the  way  to  Amy's  table.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
church  fair  was  suddenly  converted  from  a  martyrdom 
in  v  te  was  sacrificing  herself  for  the  sake  of 

her  si-ter,  to  a  veritable  adventure,  and  a  flush  of 
excitement  had  mounted  to  her  cheeks  when  she 
paused  beside  the  little  table. 

Behind  it  Amy  sat,  her  cheeks  glowing,  her  eyes 
bright  as  stars  above  her  little  pink  lawn  gown,  whicli 
Lillian  had  rendered  decidedly  tasteful  with  a  few  ar- 
tistic touches.  Her  face  was  beautiful,  and  a  smile  oi 
infinite  compassion  lighted  the  eyes  of  Philip  Sumner 
as  he  stood  up  to  acknowledge  the  introductions  a* 
her  sister  presented  her  to  Miss  Langford's  party. 

"We  are  going  to  sweep  the  whole  table !"  exclaimed 
I  Sumner,  leaning  toward  her,  "and  'then  I'm  going  to 
i  carry  you  away  to  eat  ice-cream!  Will  you  come?'1 

As  he  received  the  child's  delighted  re£ly,  he  turned 
-*to  Lillian. 

"My  little  sister  was — like  her.  She  died  two  year* 
ago.  You  will  let  me — love  the  little  one,  for  hex; 
sake,  will  you  not?" 

•  Lillian  did  not  reply,  but  there  was  a  moisture  in  the 
fcyes  that  destroyed  the  necessity  for  words. 


l8  LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL 

CHAPTER  III. 

"I  have  heard  a  great  deal  of  you  to-day,  Miss  Es- 
•monde.  You  seem  to  be  of  inexhaustible  interest  to 
•the  people  of  Burton/' 

There  was  a  quizzical  smile  in  the  dark,  poetic  eyes 
of  Philip  Sumner  as  they  gazed  down  at  Lillian.    They,  . 
were  standing  alone  under  a  great  locust-tree  near  the  v 
river  behind  the  church.     The  sun  was  setting  in  a 
huge  fiery  ball  in  the  western  sky,  and  the  scene  about 
the  church  was  growing  merrier  than  ever. 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  a  shade  of  annoyance  that 
she  strove  to  conceal  visible  in  her  face. 

"I  hope  you  have  not  been  distressed,"  she  said* 
earnestly.  "The  people  of  Burton  are  not  always  con- 
siderate. They  can  never  be  made  to  understand 
that  what  is  of  interest  to  the  individual  is  not  to  the 
world  at  large." 

"Am  I  the  world  at  large?"  he  asked,  his  smile 
fading  somewhat  or  growing  just  a  trifle  tremulous. 
"I  am  afraid  I  have  encouraged  the  gossips.  I  have 
been  intensely  interested,  at  all  events.  It  isn't  every, 
day  that  a  man  hears  of  the  brave  struggle  a  little 
thing  like  you  can  make,  and  it  makes  a  great  hulking 
fellow,  who  has  never  done  anything  in  his  life,  rathe*, 
ashamed  of  himself  when  he  considers  what  one  small 
girl  can  accomplish." 

I  am  afraid  they  have  greatly  overestimated  what 
I  have  done." 

"I  don't  think  so.  It  was  a  simple  little  story,  after 
ail.  Only  that  of  a  wee  woman  who  became  desperate 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  K) 

tinder  the  circumscribed  lines  of  a  country  existence. 
Only  a  frail  child  who  felt  that  she  was  created  for 
something  better  than  mere  vegetation,  and  would  not 
-ent  to  'hide  her  light  under  a  bushel/  but  rather 
cut  away,  and  faced  life  alone  coolly  and  bravei}'. 
Only  the  story  of  a  young  creature  who  let  herself 
adrift  in  this  big,  cruel  world  and  faced  the  enemy — • 
'temptation' — alone.  But  she  knew  her  own  strength, 
She  went  from  this  little  village  to  a  great  city,  and  iti 
less  than  two  years,  by  her  own  industry  and  persever- 
ance, she  had  established  herself  as  a  teacher  in  that 
great  city,  where  so  short  a  time  before  she  had  beea 
absolutely  unknown.  And  now  she  comes  home  to 
see  mother,  father,  and  little  sister,  who  love  her  so 
truly  and  sincerely,  to  comfort  and  cheer  their  droop- 
ing spirits.  It  is  a  simple  story,  Miss  Esmonde,  but 
one  in  which  I  think  the  most  stony  heart  would  be 
interested.  Certainly  I  have  been — intensely  so." 

He  had  been  looking  over  her  head  at  the  setting 
sun,  but  now  he  brought  his  eyes  down  to  a  level  with 
her  face. 

Was  it  possible  that  there  was  a  look  of  crimson 
shame  upon  it.  or  had  the  reflection  of  the  sun  become 
entangled  in  his  vision,  making  every  object  red? 

"'I  hope  I  have  not  offended  you!''  he  exclaimed, 
humbly. 

She  laughed  slightly.  There  was  a  strained  sottnd 
in  it,  but  she  controlled  it  admirably. 

"I  am  not  offended,  Mr.  Stimrier,  only  amused/'  she 
answered,  covering  her  embarrassment  by  not 
at  him.    "You  must  not  believe  all  that  has  been  told 


£O  LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

"What  part  of  it  is  untrue  ?"  he  asked,  boldly.      . 

She  colored  again. 

"The  motives  of  generosity  and  the  courage  whicK 
you  have  attributed  to  me,"  she  replied,  hesitatingly, 
"I  went  because  the  confining  life  became  hateful  to 
me.  I  went  because  action  was  a  necessity  and  the 
stagnation  here  stifled  me.  I  should  have  gone  mad 
to  have  continued  in  the  eternal  silence  of  the  farm. 
I  went  because  I  was  selfish,  because  1  could  not.  en* 
dure  the  life  they  lived.  I  did  not  listen  to  the  voices 
of  those  who  loved  me,  but  I  went  regardless  of  tliem* 
Do  you  call  that  brave?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  gravely.  "You  know  better 
than  those  that  surround  you.  There  was  a  work  foir 
you  to  do,  and  you  have  done  it  nobly.  There  is  no 
more  noble  calling  in  life  than  teaching.  It  is  a  con- 
tinual charity,  and  one  I  admire  above  and  beyond  all 
others.  If  I  had  had  the  selection  of  a  vocation  for 
you  in  life,  it  would  have  been  that  of  teacher,  Ah! 
I  have  heard  so  much  of  you,  so  much  that  is  tender 
and  true  and  lovely.  Forgive  me.  Your  little  sister 
and  I  have  become  great  friends.  She  has  told  me  all 
about  the  home  life,  and  how  good  you  are;  how  easy 
you  have  made  it  for  her  and  the  little  mother,  and  I  can 
so  readily  believe  it  of  you.  Her  love  for  you  is  noth- 
ing short  of  worship,  Miss  Esmonde.  It  is  beautiful, 
it  is  heavenly.  It  is  something  that  will  prove  a  talisman 
to  you,  for  it  would  be  worse  than  murder  of  the  soul 
to  deceive  an  adoration  like  that!" 

She  was  looking  beyond  him,  a  pained  expression 
upon  her  countenance  which  he  could  not  quite  traus* 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRtJ  2f 

! 

iate.    The  crimson  had  all  faded  from  her  face,  and  it 
had  grown  strangely  white.  I 

'     She  did  not  reply  to  him,  and  after  a  little  pausa 
he  exclaimed  in  a  changed  tone : 

"Do  you  know  what  she  has  promised  me?" 

Lillian  started  slightly  and  looked  at  him. 
•    "Promised  you?1'  she  repeated,  rather  vaguely. 

"Yes.  She  has  promised  that  I  may  call  at  youti 
•home.  Will  you  repeat  the  promise,  Miss  Esmonde?" 

"I — I  don't  think — you  will  care  to — to  come/* 
she  stammered. 

"But  indeed — indeed  I  shall!"  he  exclaimed,  ear- 
nestly. "I  clcn't  want  to  offend  you.  Some  way,  yott 
are  different  to  me  from  other  girls.  I  don't  kno.v  just 
exactly  what  I  should  say  to  you.  You  are  so  pure, 
so  stainless.  I  have  never  known  any  one  quite  like 
yc-u,  Miss  Esmonde,  and  it  is  not  extraordinary  that 
I  should  wish  to  become  better  acquainted,  is  it?  Wilt 
you  not  grant  m-  tlu  ^.iviiege?" 

"You  will  be — disappointed/'  she  cried  out,  pain- 
fully.    "Amy  has  made  you — has  made  you  believs 
y  things  of  me  that  are  not  true,  and — and — " 

She  dkl  not  seem  capable  of  completing  the  sentence 
He  leaned  a  trifle  towards  her,  and  as  he  did  so,  took 
lite  rose  from  her  hair  that  Clinton  Langford  had 
put  there  half  an  hour  before. 

"I  am  like  Amy,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile.  "Noth- 
ing could  make  me  believe  that.  I  fancy  that  I  was 
interested  in  her  because  of  her  likeness  to  my  little 
'dead  sister;  but — I  loved  her — because  she  talked  of— 
you  to  me — afterward.  Will  you  give  me  this  rose, 
Miss  Esmonde?" 


!'fe3  LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL 

i     He  held  the  bud  in  his  hand,  but  it  was  into  her 
eyes  that  he  looker!.  A  sweet  flush  stained  her  cheeks. 
She  tried  to  release  nerself  from  the  fascination  of 
his  eyes,  but  they  heU  her.     There  was  a  depth  of  I 
poetry  in  them  that  entranced  her.    She  would  have  i 
taken  the  rose  from  him  if  the  power  had  been  left  j 
lier,  but  to  save  her  life  she  could  not. 
»     She  smiled.    Then  she  watched  him  put  the  rose  in 
a  note-book  he  carried,  opposite  the  date.    .When  it 
svas  safely  in  his  pocket,  he  said  quietly : 

"But  you  have  not  accorded  the  other  permission. 
J  asked  Amy  if  I  might  not  call ;  I  entreat  it  of  you/* 

"You  will  not  care  to  come!"  she  cried  out,  pas* 
sionately,  as  if  struggling  to  free  herself  from  a  dan- 
gerous fascination.  "You  will  not  care  to  come!  It 
is  not  what  you  have  been  accustomed  to.  It  is  all  so 
Stiff,  so  formal,  so — so — " 

"What  shall  I  care  for  that?5'  he  asked,  almost  ten- 
derly. "It  is  not  to  see  your  home,  it  is  to  see  you, 
Miss  Esmonde.  Ah !  don't  you  understand  what  this 
day  has  been  to  me?  I  don't  dare  tell  you,  lest  you 
take  fright  and  refuse  to  let  me  see  you  again;  but 
it  is  the  promise  of  heaven  to  me.  Little  one — let  me 
come.''  j 

She  tried,  but  there  was  something  that  compelled  j 
her  in  the  handsome  face  bent  above  her.  She  hesi-  \ 
tated,  but  she  had  not  the  strength  to  resist. 

"If  you  will,"  she  answered  in  a  tone  so  low  that  he 
Scarcely  heard. 

There  was  no  triumph  in  his  expression  over  the 
concession,  but  only  gladness,  and  she  drew  a  loOgf 
sigh. 
L 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  2J 

'Thank  you,"  he  said  in  a  tone  that  fitted  her  own. 
"I  shall  try  to  deserve  the  confidence  you  have  shown 
me.  Perhaps  when  you  know  me  better,  you  will  let 
me  call  myself  your  friend.  Ah,  little  one,  man  can 
have  no  greater  honor  conferred  upon  him  than  the 
friendship  of  a  pure,  true  little  thing  like  you." 
I  But  there  was  something  more  than  friendship  in 
the  look  that  was  in  the  poetic  eyes,  something  more 
than  friendship  even  in  those  first  hours,  and  Lillian 
saw  it. 

1     She  lifted  herself  up  suddenly,  and  exclaimed  a!-,' 
niost  joyfully: 

'There  is  Miss  Langford  beckoning  to  you.    Yott 
/nust  go." 
,     "Must  I?" 

44  You  know  it." 

"I  obey — you,  as  I  always  shall.     May  I  have  just 
minutes  alone  with  you  again  this  evening?*' 

"Yes;  but  go!" 

He  smiled  and  went. 

With  almost  wild  passion,  she  turned  and  walked 
rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  river.  She  leaned 
against  a  tree,  and  for  the  first  time  allowed  her  ex- 
pression full  play.  It  was  desperate. 

"What  a  fraud  I  am!"  she  cried  out,  pressing  her 
interlaced  fingers  against  her  eyes.  "What  a  hypocrite 
and  fraud!  How  these  people  would  despise  me  if 
they  knew  the  truth !  Would  that  man  care  to  come 
to  the  house  if  he  knew  me  for  what  I  am?  Would 
his  friends  receive  me?  Pouf !  what  do  I  care?  It  is 
only  for  one  summer.  He  will  go  away  again  and 
think  nothing  of  the  little  'school  teacher1  whom  he 
met  in  the  woods !"  bitterh  "If  any  one  suffers,  it 


24  LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 


only  be  I.  For  Amy's  sake  and  the  poor  little 
mother  I  must  keep  this  secret  that  seems  strangling 
me,  I  will  do  it  —  I  swear  I  will,  let  the  consequences  be 
•what  they  may!  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  not  per- 
suaded father  to  let  us  come  to-day  !  I  wish  —  My,  f 
God!  who  is  that?" 

Almost  at  her  feet  a  man  had  landed  his  little  birch-* 
bark  canoe,  and  as  she  spoke  to  herself  he  sprung  out, 
muttering  a  curse  as  his  foot  came  in  contact  with  the 
mud  upon  the  river's  edge. 

She  would  have  taken  to  her  heels  and  fled,  but  that 
surprise,  or  something  worse,  held  her  spellbound,  and 
suddenly  he  glanced  up. 

First  an  expression  of  surprise  dawned  upon  his 
lace  ;  incredulity,  then  pleasure. 

"What!  is  it  possible?"  he  cried,  springing  toward 
her.  "Who,  in  Heaven's  name,  would  ever  have  ex- 
pected to  find  you  in  this  out-of-the-way  place  —  you, 
of  all  people  in  the  world?  I  must  be  mistaken  yet. 
It  is  a  sprite,  or  the  vision  my  imagination  has  con- 
jured. It  can't  really  be  Lil,  our  lovely  dancing-girl  !"• 


CHAPTER  IV. 

'Tor  the  love  of  Heaven,  hush !"  she  cried  lookmg 
furtively  over  her  shoulder  as  the  criminal  does  who 
fears  detection.  "How  came  you  here?  And  why 
have  you  come?" 

He  had  reached  her  side  and  laughed  lightly  as  she 
drew  her  hand  from  him. 

'That  is  not  a  very  cordial  welcome !"  he  exclaimed, 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  25 

lightly.  "Here  am  I,  so  delighted  to  see  you  that  I 
can  scarcely  control  the  exuberance  of  my  joy,  and  you 
dash  my  enthusiasm  with  ice-water  in  that  heartless 
way !  I  say,  Lil,  aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ?" 

"No!"  she  cried,  her  white,  passionate  face  turned 
toward  him,  "no !  I  hoped  for  one  little  month  to 
drop  the  old  life  behind  me.  to  be  what  these  good 
people  think  me,  and  you  have  come  to  bring  up  the 
ghost  of  the  detestable  past — the  forecast  of  the  odi- 
ous future  that  lies  before  me!  \Vhy  are  you  here?'* 

He  locked  at  her  a  trifle  increduously  for  a  moment, 
then  answered : 

"I  am  visiting  at  the  Breckenridge  farm.  The 
others  are  all  here,  but  a  matter  of  business  delayed 
me.  I  thought  I  should  be  out  of  it,  but  got  off  sooner 
than  I  expected,  and  rowed  down,  never  dreaming  of 
;ood  fortune.  Come,  Lil,  cut  all  this  nonsense,  and 
be  the  jolly  girl  who  has  got  into  the  veins  of  blood  of 
every  man  in  New  York !  Surely  you  are  not  going 
to  turn  Quakeress  at  this  late  date  !" 

She  shuddered. 

"Don't  call  me  by  that  odious  name  !"  she  exclaimed, 
glancing  over  her  shoulder  again.  "I  can't  bear  it 
here.  Listen  to  me,  Kirk.  You  once  told  me — well, 
no  matter  what  nonsense,  but  it  leads  me  to  believe 
that  I  can  ask  a  favor  of  you  now." 

"You  bet  you  can !" 

"It  is  only  this :  don't  allow  any  one  here  to  suspect 
that  -you  ever  saw  me  before." 

"What!  And  lose  the  chance  of  your  society  in 
this,  God-forsaken  hole?  Not  for  silver  or  gold!  I 
came  down  here  simply  because  I  couldn't  get  out  of 
itr  expecting  to  be  buried  alive  for  the  space  of  rny 


36  LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL 


visit,  and,  lo  !  here  you  turn  up  at  the  most  opportune 
of  moments  to  save  me  from  an  untimely  grave.  Bjr 
Jove  !  I  never  had  such  reason  to  thank  my  lucky  stars 
before  in  my  life.  And  here  you  ask  me  to  pretend 
that  I  don't  know  you—  you,  of  all  people  in  ths 
world!"  f 

"Be  serious  for  a  moment  if  you  can!"  she  ex>  f 
tlaimed,  the  agony  in  her  voice  not  to  be  mistaken.  | 
"Listen  to  me.  This  is  no  light  matter,  but  one  of—  i 
more  than  life  to  me.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  under* 
stand  the  situation  in  which  I  was  placed  ;  but  I  never 
could  —  no  one  ever  would.  My  father  was  a  stern, 
hard  man  who  saw  nothing  but  eternal  condemnation 
in  any  amusement  whatever.  He  ground  us  down, 
making  us  work  from  dawn  till  dark,  clothed  in  the 
coarsest  of  raiment.  A  laugh  met  with  a  rebuke,  a 
light  word  with  a  frown.  There  was  nothing  but 
drudgery  from  daylight  until  night,  and  no  recom* 
pense  save  coldness  and  reproof.  I  could  not  bear  it. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  my  hungering  heart  was  burning 
out  my  life.  I  could  not  endure  it  !  and  while  I  loved 
my  mother  and  sister  with  a  passion  such'  as  few 
girls  can  feel,  for  my  whole  empty  heart  was  with 
them,  I  determined  that  3  would  cut  away.  It  would 
be  useless  to  attempt  to  describe  the  scene  when  I  told 
lather  that  I  intended  to  go.  He  predicted  failure  for 
me,  and  that  I  would  crawl  to  his  door,  entreating  to 
be  taken  back,  but  said  that  I  need  not  come,  that  1 
Should  never  be  received.  With  my  mother's  tears, 
my  sister's  entreaties,  and  my  father's  curses  in  my 
cars,  I  went.  I  would  have  died  by  slowest  torture 
before  I  would  have  confessed  myself  a  failure^  before 
I  would  have  asked  for  bread  at  his  hands! 


"Well,  what  would  you  have  expected  of  a  country; 
girl  with  little  education  and  less  knowledge  of  the 
world?  I  soon  saw  starvation,  or  worse,  before  me. 
I  tried  every  way — even  to  be  a  domestic  in  some  fam- 
ily, but  I  was  too  inexperienced  for  that.  One  night- 
God  knows  how  it  happened — I  danced  in  the  parlor 
of  the  woman  who  had  taken  me  in  temporarily. 
There  was  a  man  there  who  was  manager  of  a  small 
dancing-hall.  He  offered  me  an  engagement.  I  seized  - 
upon  it  as  a  drowning  man  does  at  a  straw.  It  kept 
me  from  utter  despair. 

"With  shamed  face  I  went  to  the  little  place  and 
danced.  I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  but  I  suc- 
ceeded. Some  one  saw  me  who  recognized  that  I  had 
talent.  «.You  know  old  Colonel  Chetwynd.  He  came 
to  me  and  offered  to  teach  me,  to  provide  what  was 
necessary  for  a  better  engagement  than  I  then  filled. 
I  accepted  the  offer  simply  because  it  was  better  than 
the  position  I  then  held,  and  because  it  was  either  that 
or  starvation. 

"And  you  must  know  what  the  situation  at  home 
was.  Had  I  told  my  father  the  truth,  had  I  let  him 
know  that  I  was  dancing  for  my  living,  he  would 
never  have  allowed  either  my  mother  or  my  sister  to 
recognize  me.  Even  they,  brought  up  as  they  have 
been,  having  received  their  thoughts  and  ideas  from 
him  and  the  world  that  surrounds  them,  would  have 
believed  me  lost  eternally,  and  would  have  turned  from 
me  with  loathing-  and  contempt. 

"I  could  not  bear  it.  I  know  they  are  only  simple 
country  folk — perhaps  to  you  not  worth  consideration 
at  all,  but  they  are  all  I  have  in  life.  They  are  my 
mother  and  my  sister.  These  people  are  those  who 


28      x  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

have  known  me  from  the  cradle,  and  to  have  them 
turn  from  me  with  contempt  would  be  more  than  I 
could  bear.  I  told  them  that  I  was  teaching  school/' 

She  paused  with  bowed  head,  and  after  a  moment 
a  roar  of  laughter  burst  from  Kirk  Maitland's  lips.  ^ 

Liliian  looked  up  appealingly,  and  put  out  her  hand  *• 
with  a  little  shuddering  gesture. 

''Don't!"  she  moaned.    "It  is  like  stepping  on  some  K 
sacred  dead  thing  to  me.     I  know  you  will  think  the 
lie  unworthy  of  me,  but  I  am  so — -ashamed." 

"And  that  is  the  reason  you  don't  want  me  to  ap- 
pear to  know  you?" 

"That  is  the  reason." 

"But 'the  Langfords  are  all  here.  In  fact,  I  am 
visiting  them ;  and  Philip  Sumner  is  here.  They  have 
all  seen  you  dance." 

"But  none  of  them  have  recognized  me.  They  have 
only  seen  rne,  and  would  never  connect  a  little  country 
school-teacher  with  Lil,  the  dancing-girl." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  low  tone  so  filled 
with  shame,  of  almost  horror,  that  another  man  might 
have  been  touched;  but  not  so  Kirk  Maitland,  He 
would  have  laughed  again  but  that  he  did  not  wish  to 
offend  her. 

"If  I  consent  to  this  absurdity,  then,"  he  said,  with 
affected  plaintiveness — "then  there  will  be  no  cham- 
pagne suppers,  no  drives,  no  dancing,  but  only  just 
the  demure  companionship  of  a  little  school- teacher, 
I  call  that  hard  lines,  Lil." 

*'Oh,  don't!"  she  moaned,  "for  the  love  of  heaven, 
don't!  Tell  me  that  you  will  do  what  I  ask!" 

"Let's  make  a  compact.  I  agree,  with  a  providing 
clause.  You  did  not  treat  me  very  wrell  in  New  York 


L1L,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  2<| 

last  winter.  On  the  contrary,  several  of  the  fellows 

were  laughing  at  me  because  you  snubbed  me  once  or 

twice.     Now,  I  promise  to  be  as  good — well,  as  any 

]  of  those  youngsters  you  have  been  teaching,  if  you 

j  will — well,  agree  to  be  kinder  to  me  in  future.    Is  it  a 

bargain,  Lil  ?" 

He  looked  at  her.  The  expression  of  his  counte- 
nance was  not  good  to  see.  She  knew  perfectly  well 
that  she  was  placing  herself  in  his  power,  that  she  was 
doing  something  that  she  might  have  cause  to  regret 
to  the  last  day  of  her  life ;  but  she  was  terribly  in  ear* 
nest.  She  would  rather  have  died  than  have  had  those 
people  know  that  she  was  a  fraud,  a  hypocrite ;  that 
the  very  virtues  for  which  they  had  commended  her 
and  set  her  upon  a  pinnacle  were  lies  and  cheats. 

And  then  suddenly  another  thought  came  to  her ;  it 
was  of  Philip  Sumner. 

She  put  up  her  hand  suddenly  and  caught  her 
throat ;  then  she  whispered,  hoarsely : 

"I — I  have  never  meant  to — to  be  unkind  to  you. 
I  am  willing  to — do  anything  that  you  may  ask." 

"Good!"  he  exclaimed.  "Then  what  is  it  that  wilt 
be  expected  of  me?  I  am  to  bow  modestly  and  in* 
differently  when  some  one  presents  me  to  you — a* 
some  one  must,  you  know,  or  I  should  have  to  kick 
over  the  tvhole  bargain.  But  I  suppose  it  won't  create 
comment  if  I  at  once  proceed  to  fall  head  over  ears  in 
iove  with  the  village  beauty,  will  it?" 

She  shivered  again. 

t.  'Then  I  have  your  promise?"  she  asked,  unable  to 
reply  to  him.    "You  will  not  betray  me?" 

''You  have  my  promise  to  fall  in  love  with  you," 
be  answered  "No,  of  course  I  shall  not  betray  you— 


JO  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

there,  now !  You  are  not  like  yourself  at  all !  Drop 
the  tragic,  L51 ;  it  isn't  in  your  line  a  bit.  You  are  not 
natural  without  your  heels  in  the  air.  How  long  are 
you  going  to  stay  in  this  confounded  hole  ?  Let's  cut 
it  in  a  week,  and  get  back  to  freedom  and  champagne." 

She  tried  to  conceal  the  look  of  disgust  that  crept 
over  her  face,  but  it  was  almost  impossible.  She  had 
never  liked  the  man,  and  now  to  be  forced  to  share 
the  secret  of  her  life  with  him  was  almost  more  than 
she  could  bear;  but  she  controlled  herself,  as  she 
knew  she  must,  and  answered : 

"It  is  impossible  at  present.  I  am  going  back  to  the 
church  now.  Don't  come  at  once." 

"I  understand.  You  may  count  upon  me  to  play 
jny  part  well.  Ta-ta  for  the  present.  This  is  a  greater 
krk  than  I  expected  in  this  foreign  country." 

She  left  him  without  waiting  to  hear  more,  and 
.hurried  away,  feeling  that  another  word  would  de- 
stroy her  self-control. 

He  stood  for  a  few  moments  where  she  had  left 
him,  leaning  against  the  locust-tree  where  Philip 
Sumner  had  stood. 

"  Ton  my  soul!"  he  ejaculated.  "Who  would  have 
tver  thought  of  a  situation  like  this?  Kirk,  old  boy, 
you  are  in  a  barrel  of  luck;  The  little  princess  cut 
me  last  winter,  and  the  fellows  never  ceased  guying ; 
but  hanged  if  I  haven't  got  her  now!  Everything 
comes  to  him  who  knows  how  to  wait,  and  I've  got 
my  lady  just  where  I  want  her.  She'll  dance  to  my 
music  now,  or  Kirk  Maitland  is  away  off  in  his  reck- 
oning!" 


LIE,   THE    DANCING-GIRL'  (JJ 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  third  week  of  Lillian's  visit  was  drawing  to  at* 


i  There  had  been  moments  when  it  seemed  to  her. 
that  the  entire  happiness  of  her  life  had  been  crowded 
into  those  few  days,  and  then  a  burning  shame  would 
stain  her  beautiful  cheeks  crimson  as  she  remembered 
the  lie  she  was  living,  the  false  position  that  she  oc- 
cupied* 

Philip  Sumner  had  called  at  the  little  farm-house, 
cot  once  alone,  but  often,  never  seeming  to  recognize 
the  stiffness  or  discomfort  of  the  place,  but  regarding 
it  lightly,  perhaps  pleased  that  this  girl  in  who.m  he 
was  so  deeply  interested  had  been  brought  up  under 
such  strict  lines.  Kirk  Maitland  came,  too,  and  it 
;was  on  these  occasions  most  that  Lillian  seemed  to 
realize  all  the  falsity  of  her  position,  and  she  grew  to 
detest  him  as  if  he  were  the  cause  of  the  self-loathing 
lhat  oppressed  her. 

Old  Jonathan  Esmonde  did  not  approve  of  the  visits 

,  of  the  young  swells,  as  he  chose  to  call  them,  in  the 

:  kast  ;  but  he  was  proud  of  Lillian  and  her  success  as 

a  teacher,  and  when  she  insisted,  he  yielded.    It  was 

an  extraordinary  thing  for  him  to  do,  but  he  explained 

his  good  nature  rather  apologetically  by  saying  : 

"I  suppose  some  recreation  is  due  you  when  you 
air  shet  up  in  a  school-room  all  day  earnin'  money,  at 
other  times.  There  ain't  much  recreation  in  teachin' 
thick-skulled  young  ones." 

And  so  Philip  Sumnenend  Kirk  Maitland  continued 
to  come. 


'32  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

There  was  but  one  more  week  left  to  her  of  thai 
freedom—which  was  not  freedom,  after  all,  on  account 
of  the  presence  of  Kirk  Maitland — until  she  saw  thai 
she  would  be  compelled  to  return  to  the  life  which  she 
had  never  liked,  and  which  she  now  thoroughly  de* 
tested;  but  when  she  had  read  ChetwyndV  letter  one 
rtiorning,  urging  Tier  not  to  overstay  her  time  by  one 
moment,  but  rather  to  cut  it  short,  if  that  were  possi- 
ble, she  shrugged  her  shoulders  bitterly. 

"I've  got  to  go!"  she  muttered,  fiercely,  crushing 
the  letter  in  her  hand.  ''It's  the  penalty  exacted  for  a 
lie.  I've  got  to  go  back  and  dance  and  smile.  Well, 
what  of  that?  Could  I  better  endure  that  father 
should  know?  that  he  should  separate  me  from  mother 
and  Amy?  Philip  Surnner  would  despise  me.  He 
.would  turn  away,  as  he  will  do  anyway,  when  he 
knows!  Pouf !  I  am  a  fool.  I  will  go  on,  accept  tho 
trumbs  that  fall  to  my  lot,  and  let  fate  take  care  of 
itself.  After  all,  I  did  not  make  my  life.  It  was  the 
only  chance  I  had,  and  it  was  either  that  or — -dishonor. 
But  is  not  this  dishonor?  My  father  would  not  know 
what  Kirk  Maitland  meant  if  he  should  say,  'Your 
daughter  is  Lil  the  dancing-girl/  and  yet  I  believe  I 
had  rather  a  thousand  times  die  than  hear  it  spoken !  | 
There  is  no  help  for  me.  It  is  the  penalty  of  a  lie.  f 
The  net  will  draw  tighter  and  tighter  until — " 

The  sentence  was  broken  by  the  entrance  of  Amy.  * 
She  was  excited,  and  limped  into  the  room  in  greater 
haste  than  she  usually  allowed  herself. 

"Quick,  Lillian  !"  she  gasped.    "They  are  coming  I" 

"Who?5'  asked  Lillian,  striving  to  smooth  the  ex- 
pression out  of  her  forehead  with  her  fingefs,  *vhicli 
ahe  feared  would  attract  her  sister's 


LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL  JJ 

"Why,  HIsa  Lsngford  and  Kirk  Maitland.    I  think 
ner  is  on  horaoba«cfc  just  behind,  but  I  couldn't 

see.    They  are  coming  here." 

"Miss  Langford?" 

"Yes ;  they've  already  passed  the  gate,    1  wondeff 
'  what  wade  her  call?" 

"Perhaps  to  see  us,"  answered  Lillian,  with  a  smile* 
*That  is  what  people  usually  call  for,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes;  but  she's  been  so  stiff  and  nasty  since  thai 

at   the   fair  that   I   never  thought   she'd  come. 

c's  Mr.  Sumner  now.    How  lovely  you  look  with 

that  flush  en  your  cheeks !    You  are  a  thousand  times 

;ier  than  she  is.    Oh,  Lillian,  I  wish  Mr.  Sumnec 

would  marry  you,  so  that  you  would  never  have  to 

teada  those  wretched  children  again!'* 

"Hush!1"  cried  the  elder  girl,  almost  savagely.  "You 
»must  not  say  that.  '  I  would — would  not  marry  Mr. 
Sumner  if — if — well,  if  he  should  ask  me!" 

"Why  not?*' 

But  Lillian  made  no  reply.  She  turned  away  hastily; 
and  went  toward  the  door,  perhaps  to  conceal  the  ex- 
pression wfclcH  she  could  not  control.  Her  heart  beat 
to  suffocation.  For  the  first  time  she  seemed  to  realize 
what  it  would  be  to  part  from  Philip  Sumner.  For  the 
first  time  she  seemed  really  to  understand  why  those 
three  weeks  seemed  to  form  a  turning-point  in  fief 
whole  life. 

She  went  down-stairs  to  receive  her  guescs  in  trfe 
stiff,  prim  little  parlor,  which  she  had  not  tried  to 
rearrange  because  of  the  impossibility  of  making  it 
look  better. 

She  was  effusive  in  a  well-bred  way  to  Miss  Lang* 


34  ^IL9  THE   DANCING-GIRL 

ford,  friendly  in  her  greeting  to  Kirk  Maitland,  an4 
coldly  haughty  to  Philip  Sumner. 

He  looked  surprised  and  pained,  but  she  turned 
away  to  Miss  Langford,  and  did  not  look  at  him  un- 
less  occasion  demanded  it.  •• 

"You  were  courageous  to  venture  out  to-day,"  she 
said  to  Miss  Langford.    "It  is  the  hottest  of  the  sea- 1 
son,  I  think." 

"And  in  spite  of  that  fact,  Mr.  Sumner  and  Mr. 
Maitland  tell  me  that  you  return  to  New  York  next 
week.  Is  it  true?" 

"Unfortunately,  yes.  We  bread-winners  are  never 
our  own  masters.*' 

*  There  was  a  bitterness  in  her  tone  that  surprised 
Sumner,  but  he  had  not  recovered  from  the  coldness 
of  his  reception,  and  said  nothing. 

It  was  Miss  Langford  who  continued : 

"I  didn't  know  there  were  any  schools  open  at.  this 
season  of  the  year.  I  thought  every  one  was  out  of 
town." 

Lillian  colored.  She  could  not  look  at  Miss  Lang* 
ford  without  seeing  Kirk  Maitland,  and  she  observed 
fhe  curious,  quizzical  smile  upon  his  face. 

"They  are  not  open  yet,"  she  answered,  boldly,  "butf 
there  are  many  things  that  demand  attention  besides 
the  mere  act  of  teaching.     There  are  examinations  ta 
stend  and  positions  to  secure." 

"Isn't  that  done  at  the  close  of  the  school?" 

"Not  always." 

"Well,  you  see,  I  know  so  little  about  those  things. 
It  is  dreadfully  trying,  to  think  of  a  woman  battling 
with  the  world,  and  it  is  tremendously  gratifying  when 
'jane  succeeds." 


L1L,    THE    DANCING-GiRL  35 

'  "Particularly  in  the  line  that  Miss  Esmonde  has 
Chosen/'  said  Sumner,  quietly. 

Kirk  Maitland  laughed  outright,  and  Lillian  shot 
Jjfcim  a  glance  which  pulled  him  up  suddenly. 

"It  always  seems  so  absurd  to  me  to  think  of  Miss 
Esmonde  as  a  demure  little  school-teacher/'  he  ex- 


plained, "that  I  can  never  keep  from  *  laughing.  I 
should  think  all  the  boys  would  fall  so  desperately-  in 
love  with  her  that  there  would  be  no  chance  of  teach* 
ing  them  anything  beyond  sentiment." 

Amy  entered  at  that  moment  and  stopped  a  sub- 
ject that  was  growing  painful  to  Lillian. 

The  conversation  was  general  for  a  moment,  then 
JMiss  Lang  ford  exclaimed : 

"We  are  going  to  have  a  little  dance  to-morrow 
night,  Miss  Esmonde,  and  we  have  braved  the  heat  to 
come  over  and  ask  you  to  join  us.  It  is  only  a  small 
affair,  with  a  few  of  the  neighbors  asked,  but  it  would 
be  most  incomplete  without  your  presence  and  that  of 
little  Amy.  You  will  both  come,  will  you  not?'' 

"It  is  so  kind  of  you/'  answered  Lillian,  coloring 
deeply,  "But  I'm  afraid—" 

"Don't  say  no,  Lillian !"  cried  Arny,  excitedly.  "You 
<  know  father  will  let  us  if  we  ask  him!  Do  let  us. go, 
j  Lillian.  I  was  never  at  a  dance  in  all  my  life." 

Lillian  glanced  at  the  pleading,  wistful  face  half 
vj  imploringly.    It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  enter 
*  the  house  of  that  woman  under  the  circumstances,  un- 
der that  lie  that  she  was  living.    She  knew  how  girls 
of  her  class — dancing-girls — were  looked  upon  in  so- 
ciety, and  she  felt  as  a  burglar  might  when  he  corn- 
ifLts  his  first  offense  through  a  fancied  necessity.    And 
gret  she  longed  to  go  for  the  child's  sake,  the  little 


gfl  Lit,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

swhose  life  was  so  empty,  who  knew  nothing  but  pain, 

"Father— would  not— consent/'  she  murmured  5  but 
[Amy  cried  out:  i(  - 

j     'Ask  him!    Only  ask  him!    Oh,  Lily,  I  would  give 
anything  to  go!" 

"Do  ask  him !"  exclaimed  Miss  Langford,  lazily  fan- 
ning herself.  "The  dance  will  be  quite  spoiled  with- 
out you/' 

"And  Lillian  'dances  so  beautifully!"  exclaimed 
j&my,  enthusiastically.  "She  used  to  be  always  danc- 
ing— under  the  apple-trees,  in  the  hay-loft,  anywhere 
that  she  could  be  sure  father  would  not  see,  but  now 
she  never  will  any  more.  She  can  dance  lovely,  Miss 
ILangford." 

"Indeed  she  can!"  remarked  Maitland,  serenely^ 
watching  the  angry  color  leap  to  Lil's  cheeks. 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  demanded  Amy. 

"I  only  fancy,"  returned  Maitland,  "Every  grace^ 
ful  girl  dances  well." 

*    "But  not  so  well  as  Lillian.    Do  say  you  will  got 
'dear." 

"For  your  sake," 

The  words  were  spoken  gently,  but  the  cry  of  the 
heart  was  fierce. 

".What  do  I  care?"  she  was  saying,  mentally.  "It 
can  do  no  more  harm  than  has  been  done  already.  It 
;will  give  that  poor,  yearning  child  one  evening  of 
pleasure,  or,  rather,  she  fancies  it  will,  which  is  quite 
the  same  thing.  After  all,  what  can  it  matter?  My; 
God,  what  does  anything  matter?" 

And  then  aloud,  rather  recklessly,  she  exclaimed:  1 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Langford.    I  hope  I  have  noil 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  3# 

•eemed  ungrateful  for  the  invitation.     I  am  sure  I 
shall  enjoy  it  quite  as  much  as  Amy  will." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

There  was  never  anything  simpler  than  tfie 
tame  worn  by  Lillian  to  the  dance  given  by  Miss 
I^angford— only  a  Hitle  mull  trimmed  with  inexpensive 
face — and  yet  one  of  the  sirens  that  so  fascinated  the 
clden  Greeks  could  not  have  been  more  lovely  than 
she. 

Amy  gazed  at  her  with  an  admiration  that  was 
positively  servile,  as  they  were  being  driven  over  in 
ihe  creaky  old  spring  wagon. 

"You  are  so  beautiful  that  you  take  my  breath 
away !"  she  exclaimed  at  last,  never  removing  her  eyes 
from  her  sister's  face.  "Oh,  Lillian!  if  only  we  were 
rich — if  only  you  did  not  have  to  teach  that  dreadful 
school — how  flifferent  life  might  be  for  us!  But  it 
is  nothing  but  grind,  grind  from  morning  until  night  1 
What  good  is  the  world,  after  all?  There  is  nothing 
in  it  but  suffering  and  unhappiness." 

"For  shame,  little  pessimist  I"  exclaimed  Lillian,  tap- 
ping the  flushed  cheek  reprovingly.  "Finding  fault 
•with  life  at  your  age,  and  going  to  your  first  dance  at 
the  same  moment !" 

"But  I  can  not  forget  that  you  leave  me  next  week. ! 
I  can  not  forget  that  I  must  go  back  to  the  same  old 
loneliness,  the  same  old  despair.  I  know  I'm  only  a 
hunchback,  and  that  I  should  expect  nothing  better^ 
than  what  I  have ;  but  oh,  Lily,  I  am  so  tired  of  th& 


38  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

stiffness,  the  terrible,  never-enaing  grind,  the  unceas* 
ing  complaints  of  father,  the  total  lack  of  any  interest 
whatever !  It  is  all  empty — so  hideously  empty  that  I 
feel  sometimes  as  if  every  particle  of  heart  and  soul 
had  been  taken  out  of  my  body,  and  there  was  nothing 
left  there  but  the  bare  shell.  Forgive  me,  dear,  but 
you  are  going  away." 

There  was  a  pathos  in  the  last  words  that  touched 
Lillian  until  the  tear's  sprung  to  her  eyes.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  would  have  given  all  she  possessed  at 
that  moment  if  she  could  have  promised  to  take  her 
little  sister  with  her.  She  slipped  her  arm  about  ths 
child's  waist  and  held  her  closely. 

"But  I  will  come  again,"  she  whispered. 

"Not  for  a  year — a  whole,  endless  year!  Oh,  Lily* 
take  me  with  you — take  me  with  you  1" 

Lillian  did  not  reply.  It  seemed  to  her  that  if  hefi 
life  depended  upon  it,  she  could  not.  She  kissed  the 
child  upon  the  cheek,  and  after  a  moment  Amy  went 
on: 

"I  think  sometimes  that  if  I  had  had  a  different 
father  I  might  have  been  as  other  girl?  are,  and  I 
jam  sure  that  if  my  back  had  been  different  I  should 
not  be  as  I  am.    I  might  then  have  been  like  you.    I  £ 
have  read  in  books  where  people  were  cured  whose  de*  \ 
formity  was  even  worse  than  mine,  and  I  have  beggedT'S 
him  to  send  me  away ;  but  he  only  answers  with  the 
old  story  of  no  money.    And  I  know  it  isn't  true,  Lily;  • 
—I  know  it  isn'tl" 

There  was  a  passion  in  the  voice  that  Lillian  had 
never  heard  there  before.  It  seemed  to  arouse  all  hefl 
conscience  more  than  ever. 


LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL  39 

"You  would  like  to  see  a  doctor,  Amy  ?"  she  asked, 
huskily. 

The  child  clasped  her  hands  almost  fiercely  there  in 
the  moonlight. 

"Like  it!"  she  cried,  hoarsely.  "Would  the  blind 
Kke  to  see?  Would  the  starving  like  food?  Would 
Tantalus  have  liked  a  drink  of  water?  My  God!  I 
have  crawled  from  my  little,  hard  bed  in  the  middle 
cf  the  night  and  prayed  for  the  opportunity  that 
seemed  so  hopeless  until  it  seemed  to  me  that  God 
surely  must  hear  me,  far  away  though  I  am.  It  would 
»ot  be  the  same  if  I  knew  that  father  could  not  afford 
to  send  me;  but  money  is  more  to  him  than  I." 

Lillian's  beautiful  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears. 

"You  shall  go,"Amy!"  she  cried,  passionately,  not 
pausing  to  consider  the  promise  she  was  making. 

For  a  moment  the  child  started  up  in  wild  rapture ; 
then  she  sunk  back  again,  her  expression  more  hope- 
less than  before. 

•  "I  forgot  how  you  have  to  work  for  your  money," 
she  said,  hoarsely.  "For  a  moment  there  seemed  some- 
thing like  hope  in  the  future;  but — with  only  your  lit* 
tie  salary — I  couldn't  do  it,  Lily.  I  am  not  so  selfish 
*s  that,  dear." 

3  Selfish !  The  girl's  heart  smote  her.  Her  conscience 
tried  out  against  her.  She  drew  the  child  closely  to 
tier. 

fr  "You  shall  go,"  she  whispered.  "It  is  I  who  have 
teen  selfish — I  who  have  been  criminal  in  my  negli- 
gence. I  seek  some  way  for  an  atonement  that  was 
denied  me  yesterday;  and  let  the  cost  be  to  myself 
•what  it  will,  I  will  make  it.  If  medical  skill  can  maks 
you  what  you  crave  to  be,  it  shall  be  done." 


£0  LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL1 

"LSly— " 

"Hush !    There  is  the  house/" 

The  child  had  not  understood  the  words  that  Her  sis- 
ter had  spoken,  and  Lillian  was  tharikiul  that  it  was 
too  late  to  ask  for  explanation  of  them.  n*H 

They  were  very  silent  as  deaf  old  Reuben,  their  | 
inan-of-all-work,  drove  the  wagon  up  to  the  place  * 
where  they  were  to  alight ;  but  Lillian  saw  the  danc-  rt 
ing  delight  in  her  sister's  eyes,  and  a  little  shiver;  v 
passed  over  her  as  she  thought  of  the  promise  she  had 
made. 

The  grounds  were  like  fairy-land  to  Amy,  who  had 
never  seen  anything  like  it  in  all  her  retired  life, 
lighted  as  they  were  by  fairy  lamps  and  fantastic  lan- 
terns, but  it  was  left  for  the  house  to  dazzle  her  with 
splendors  that  she  had  never  dreamed  of. 

As  they  stepped  upon  the  broad  balcony  with  its 
Eastern  rugs,  its  dainty  carved  tables  and  great  wil- 
low chairs,  and  glanced  through  the  windows  at  the 
lights,  the  splendid  old  furniture  the  flowers  and  palms, 
she  caught  her  breath  hard,  and  paused,  catching  her 
sister's  arm  in  a  grasp  like  a  vise. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it  ?"  she  panted. 

But  Lillian  had  forgotten  to  be  astonished.     She  | 
might  have  told  of  the  balls  which  she  had  attended  | 
beside  which  this  was  merely  the  pretty  country  affair  f 
which  Miss  Langford  had  intended.      But  she  only, 
looked  at  Amy  in  absent-minded  surprise. 

'Tike  what?"  she  asked. 

"This!"  panted  the  child,  with  a  comprehensive 
wave  of  the  hand.  "Don't  you  see  ?  Cindrella  at  the 
princes'  ball  saw  nothing  like  it  1" 

Lillian  smi?«d  sadly,  but  said  nothing.    She  took  the 


LIL,    THL    DANCJNG-GIRL  41 

little  one  by  the  arm,  and  together  they  entered  the  hali 
.where  the  servant  waited. 

In  a  sort  of  maze  of  astonishment  and  bewildering 
delight  Amy  went  through  the  rooms,  scarcely  realiz- 
ing how  the  evening  was  passing. 

She  saw  Lillian  dancing.     It  seemed  to  her  that  in 
of  all  the  beautiful  dressing  of  Miss  Langford 
.'riends,  there  was  none  in  that  great  place  that 
could  compare  with  Lillian  in  her  simple  mull. 

She  had  been  sitting  in  a  corner  for  a  long  time  by 
herself,  watching  it  all,  when  Philip  Sumner  came  uj> 
to  her. 

"Are  you  enjoying  it?"  he  asked  kindly  of  her, 
.    "Enjoying  it?'*    she  repea  It  seems  such  a 

poor  expression.  I  have  never  heard  any  music  like 
before.  I  never  saw  any  flowers  like  these.  I 
cever  watched  any  one  dance  except  Lillian,  and  then 
there  was  no  music  only  as  she  herself  whistled.  I 
wonder  if  you  would  think  a  person  would  enjoy  a 
&rst  glimpse  of  heaven  ?" 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  There  was  something  in- 
finitely pathetic  in  the  little  face  that  was  upturned  to 
him. 

"And  do  you  never  have  any  desire  to  dance  your- 
telf  ?"  he  asked,  gently. 

He  had  expected  the  expression  upon  the  little  eager 
face  to  change  to  one  of  sadness,  but  its  happiness 
deepened  into  a  joyous  smile. 

"I  shall  some  day!"  she  cried,  turning  her  eyes  fron* 
the  thrilling  scene  to  his  face.  "Do  you  know  I  have 
read  of  lots  of  people  being  cured  who  were  afflicted 
as  I  am.  I  have  so  longed  and  prayed  to  go  and  try 
what  they  could  do  for  me,  but — father— could  not 


^2  LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

send — me«  !AnS  now — Lillian  is  going  to  take  me  v/itK 
her.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  kind  in  ail  your 
life,  Mr.  Sumner?  She  only  earns  sixty  dollars  a 
month.  It  has  always  seemed  a  very  great  deal  to 
me,  but  I  knew  it  will  be  little  enough  when  she  hat 
to  pay  doctors'  bills.  I  feel  so  selfish,  but  then — she 
is  the  best  and  dearest  sister  in  all  this  world.  Don't  f 
you  think  it  is  lovely  of  her,  Mr.  Sumner?" 

But  Philip  did  not  have  an  opportunity  to  reply*  ^ 
Some  one  came  for  him,  and  he  was  forced  to  leava 
the  little  one  alone,  but  her  words  kept  ringing  through 
his  brain.    He  thought  of  them  every  time  he  glanced 
toward  the  sylph-like  creature  in  white  mull. 

"Only  sixty  dollars  a  month  teaching  school,"  he 
kept  repeating  to  himself,  "yet  she  can  sacrifice  her* 
self  in  order  to  help  that  poor  little  creature  to  some- 
thing better  in  life.  Working  from  early  morning  to 
late  at  night  for  a  paltry  pittance,  and  spending  that 
•upon  a  sick  child  to  give  her  hope  and  comfort,  while 
I,  a  great,  hulking  fellow,  have  more  than  I  could 
spend  in  all  my  life,  and  never  do  good  to  any  one. 
You  must  look  to  weak  little  women  if  you  want  to 
find  heroism  in  this  world.  How  beautiful  she  "is, 
God  bless  her!  And  as  noble  as  beautiful.  It  is  char- 
acters like  that  that  makes  us  worship  her  sex.  I  wish 
I  could  help  her.  I  wish  she  would  let  me 
help  her.  But  she  won't.  She  isn't  a  bit  ashamed 
of  her  stiff,  formal,  almost  formidable  little 
home.  Her  tenderness  for  her  little,  uneducated 
mother  is  exquisite,  and  her  respect  for  that  old  bore 
of  a  father  is  beautiful.  God!  it  is  women  like  her 
that  make  you  glad  your  mother  and  your  wife  must 
be  of  the  same  sex*  It  is  little,  pure,  true  things  like 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  2£ 

that  that  make  you  sorry  God  himself  is  not  one  of 
them.  It  would  be  so  much  easier  to  trust  Him.  I 
wish  to  heaven  I  were  worthy ;  I'd  ask  her  to  be  my 
wife.  But  I  am  not  fit  to  make  a  mat  for  her  small 
feet.  How  ashamed  a  fellow  feels  of  himself  and  his 
past  life  in  presence  of  a  girl  like  her.  Heigh-ho!  I 
wish  I'd  been  a  better  man.  I'd  ask  her  to  be  my  wife, 
and —  Hang  it  all!  What  a  conceited  puppy  I  am! 
A  girl  like  that  could  never  love  a  worthless  nonen- 
tity like  me/' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Philip  Sumner  was  not  dancing.  He  had  not  done 
so  since  his  last  waltz  with  Lillian,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  should  never  do  so  again  without  her  as 
his  partner.  It  was  the  poetry  of  motion  to  him,  and 
a  good  dancer  himself,  he  had  enjoyed  it  is  he  had 
never  done  a  waltz  before. 

She  danced  with  another  man  shortly  afterward,  and 

Philip  stood  in  the  doorway  watching  her,  thinking 

holy  thoughts  of  the  sweet,  pure  creature,  and  when 

!  she  had  finished  and  slipped  from  the  room  alone  out 

I  into  the  grounds,  he  followed  her. 
He  found  her  down  among  the  locust-trees,  whose 
trunks  were  wound  with  yellow  honeysuckle.  There 
was  no  difficulty  in  finding  her,  for  the  grounds  were 
lighted  not  alone  with  a  brilliant  moon  that  was  almost 
tropical  in  its  splendor,  but  by  the  fairy  lamps  and 
lanterns  as  well. 

She  was  leaning  against  one  of  the  trees,  whose 


44  LIL»    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

garlands  of  fragrant  yellow  honeysuckle  formed  & 
halo  about  her  head.  Her  eyes  were  closed.  The 
merry  breeze  had  blown  out  the  white  mull  skirt  until 
it  had  become  wrapped  about  the  tree.  Her  arms 
.were  dropped  beside  her.  It  was  an  exquisite  picture, 
and  upon  which  Philip  Sumner  looked  for  some  time 
before  disturbing  it. 

"You  are  like  a  tired  wood-nymph/'  he  said,  softly.  I 
"The  fairies  bring  rest  in  the  moon  rays  and  place  1 
lamps  at  the  feet  of  their  goddess.    I  should  like  to  be 
an  artist  to  paint  you  as  you  are !" 

She  smiled  up  at  him  faintly. 

"I  believe  I  am  tired,"  she  answered.  "I  deiesJ 
dancing.  I  sometimes  wish  I  could  never  hear  the 
strains  of  another  orchestra  as  long  as  I  live S" 

Her  tone  had  grown  bitterly  passionate  as  her  words 
continued,  and  she  observed  his  look  of  surprise. 

"You  would  deprive  others  of  the  greatest  pleasure 
in  existence — that  of  being  your  partner  in  a  waltz/1 
he  said,  soothingly.  "You  will  not  be  offended  with 
me  if  I  say  that  you  are  the  finest  waltzer  I  ever  saw, 
will  you  ?" 

There  was  something  cynical  in  her  smile. 

"It  is  a  laudable  ambition,  is  it  not,  to  be  a  great 
dancer?" 

She  asked  her  question  in  a  curious  tone,  and  one 
which  interested  him  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  waa 
not  in  an  analytical  mood. 

"It  is  the  personification  of  grace/'  he  answered, 
thoughtfully. 

She  laughed,  striving  with  all  her  might  to  make  it 
sound  natural,  and  yet  fearing  that  he  would  hear  the 
throbbing  of  her  heart  through  it. 


45 

"And  it  suggests  a  capital  means  of  livelihood,"  she 

exclaimed,  the  strained  expression  of  her  eyes  veiled 

by  lowered  lids.    "When  I  return  to  New  York  I  shall 

study.    There  is  mere  money  in  dancing  than  teaching 

I  tchool." 

She  flashed  a  glance  at  him,  and  saw  him  shrink 

'almost  as  if  he  had  heard  some  note  of  vulgarity  from 

fcer  perfect  lips.    Then  he  smiled,  but  not  with  mirth. 

"Of  course  you  only  say  that  in  jest/'  he  said, 
softly ;  "and  I  was  a  dunce  to  be  affected  by  it,  but— 
you  will  laugh  when  I  tell  you  that  it  actually  hurt 
tie.  I  had  rather  see  you  deadl" 

"Why?" 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  the  class  of  women  you  men* 
lion,  or  you  would  not  even  speak  of  it  in  sport." 

"But  might  not  something  good  come  out  of  Naza« 
»*ih?" 

The  strained  tone  had  returned  to  her  voice.  It  was 
Wlmost  appealing* 

"No!"  he  replied,  speaking  more  earnestly  than  he 
Sad  done  before.  "Contact  must  of  necessity  bring 
Contamination.  Don't  even  speak  of  it.  It  hurts  me 
like  a  lash  to  hear  such  a  thought  from  you,  even  when 
J  know  it  is  not  serious.  You  are  too  pure,  too— • 
Tioly!" 

-  She  shivered  slightly.    Her  face  was  deathly  pale, 
I  at  he  saw  only  the  effects  of  her  fatigue  and  the 

*  »K>onlight. 

"Come  over  this  way.  There  is  a  seat,"  he  said,  a!- 
Most  tenderly,  taking  her  hand  and  drawing  it  through 
5b:s  arm  as  he  led  her  across  the  lawn.  "There  is 
something  that  I  want  to  say  to  you.  I  don't  know 
how  to  say  it  I  wish  you  would  help  me.  I  ara 


ij6  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

afraid  of  offending  you,  and  yet — and  yet.  Can't  you 
understand  ?  I  want  to  do  something  in  life.  I  seem 
to  lead  such  an  aimless  sort  of  an  existence.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  little  one,  your  brave,  active  life  has 
made  me  ashamed  of  myself.  I  seem  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  to  realize  what  a  great  clod  I  am,  utterly 
useless,  utterly  good  for  nothing.  I  want  you  to  help 
me.  I  want  you  to  show  me  how  to  be  like  you,  so 
good,  so  unselfish,  so  generous.  I  know  it  will  seem 
a  hopeless  task  to  you,  but — will  you  try?0 

He  looked  down  upon  her  with  the  same  admira- 
tion and  faith  that  one  looks  upon  a  statue  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  and  she  could  have  cried  out  in  her 
agonized  self-loathing.  She  had  never  felt  her  posi» 
lion  of  falsehood  and  shame  before  as  she  felt  it  then  / 
and  yet,  if  her  very  life  depended  upon  it,  she  could 
not  have  told  him  the  truth.  Once  her  lips  openert 
to  speak  it,  but  they  closed  again,  and  only  the  mur  f 
mur  left  her  soul : 

"Death  first!    Death  first!" 
i     She  looked  up  at  him  wistfully. 

"I  wish  to  heaven  I  were  what  you  think  me!"  sh€ 
cried  out,  helplessly.  "I  wish  that  I  deserved  the 
words  that  you  have  spoken." 

"Deserved  them!"  he  repeated.  "There  is  nothing 
of  good  that  you  do  not  deserve.  I  know  so  much  ot 
your  life,  little  one — so  much  more  than  you  think. 
You  will  not  be  offended  that  I  have  allowed  the  coun- 
try people  to  talk  to  me,  will  you?  You  will  not 
think  that  I  have  rather  encouraged  them  in  the  taler* 
of  your  bravery  and  self sacrmce  'f  They  told  me  of 
the  life  you  lead,  of  the  circumscribed  lines  about  you, 
and  of  your  breaking  away.  But  they  also  told  n?e  of 


UL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  4% 

lie  F.oble  fight,  of  your  constant  care  of  mother  and 

sister;  and  then  Amy— do  you  think  that  little  Amy 

has  been  silent  when  she  had  so  eager  a  listener?    She 

has  told  me  only  to-night  of  the  noble  resolve  that 

you  have  made  to  take  her  to  New  York  for  medical 

^  attention.    She  told  me  of  the  wee  salary  that  you  ex* 

j  pect  to  make  pay  the  bills  that  doctors  know  so  well 

j  bow  to  charge,  and —    Won't  you  help  me  to  tell  you? 

Lily?    You  will  let  me  call  you  Lily,  will  you  not?    It 

is  the  emblem  of  purity,  and  a  perfect  name  for  you. 

I  want  you — I  want  you  to  let  me  help  you,  dear.    I 

entreat  of  you  to  make  me  happy  in  that  way,  to  lefc 

me  feel  that  I,  too,  am  doing  good !" 

"You  mean — about  the — money?"  she  gasped. 

"Yes,  if  you  will  put  it  that  way,"  he  answered,  as 
if  he  were  ashamed.  "I — " 

"Great  heavens!"  she  interrupted,  her  face  crimson 
!With  shame.  "What  will  you  think  when  you  know, 
as  you  must  ?  You  must !  Money  ?  What  is  that  to 
me?  My  God!  if  I  were  forced  to  slave  from  cen- 
tury's end  to  century's  end  for  the  bare  sustenance  of 
life,  it  would  be  better  than  this !" 

He  did  not  understand  her  words.    He  thought  she 
referred  to  her  father's  harshness  and  to  Amy's  mis- 
fortune.   He  did  not  hear  the  despair  in  her  tone,  but 
only  thought  her  excited,  and  siipped  his  arm  about 
j  her  soothingly. 

"It  is  that  of  which  I  feel  so  sure,"  he  said,  gently. 
"Oh,  Lily,  I  wish  I  were  worthy  to  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife !  There,  little  one ;  I  did  not  mean  to  speak  those 
words  aloud ;  but  my  heart  has  spoken  them  so  often 
that  my  tongue  refuses  to  remain  silent.  I  Jove  you, 
ttaiKttq!  My  lite  has  not  been  a  pure  one.  If  5 


48  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

could  but  cleanse  it  for  your  sweet  sake,  I  should  fan 
the  happiest  man  alive.     But    I    am   not    conceited 
enough  to  think  that  you  could  ever  care  for  me,    Be- 
lieve me,  I  should  never  ask  it  of  you,  little  one,  If 
you  will  only  consent  to  let  me  help  you,    I  know  i| 
should  never  have  spoken  of  my  love  under  the  ci 
cumstances ;  that  I  should  have  been  contented  to  lovdl 
you  to  the  day  of  my  death  in  silence,  but  it  was  forceS  1 
from  me  unawares ;  but  I  arn  quite  conscious  that  then! 
never  could  be  any  chance  for  me,  Lily.    I  have  neve*, 
been  fool  enough  to  even  hope  for  that    Lilyf* 

She  had  stopped  suddenly  in  their  walk,  and  wit$ 
fcer  hands  pressed  closely  upon  her  breast,  had  locked 
Kp  at  him. 

Something  had  suddenly  dawned  in  her  expressiqu 
•—• a  radiance,  a  light  of  brilliant  joy,  and  he  paught  hetf 
hands  and  held  them. 

"Speak  to  me!"  he  exclaimed,  hoarsely.    ''My  lift 
has  not  been  pure.    I  have  lived  as  men  usually  di> 
•who  regret  it,  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  for  the  rest  ci 
their  lives;  but  I  lovj  j*ou;    I  love  you  with  all  tba 
strength  of  my  soul!    If  you  will  be  my  wife  I  wiJ 
cherish  you  as  woman  was  never  cherished  before.    I 
will  worship  you  for  the  sacrifice  you  make  for  me* 
Lily,  Lily,  there  is  something  in  your  face — I  don'ili 
know  what — but  it  seems  to  teil  me  that  you  love  me }  } 
For  God's  sake,  speak!    I  feel  as  if  my  soul  were  sus*  | 
perided  between  heaven  and  hell,  waiting  for  a  word  i 
from  you!    Darling,  what  is  it  to  be?" 

Rut  the  reply  came  from  another  quarter.  It  wai 
Miss  Langford's  voice  that  answered  his  pleading. 

have  been  searching  for  you  two  all  over  ths 
and  the  grounds.    We  are  going  to  dance  tha 


LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL  4<Jj 

Sir  Kcger  de  Coverley.  Come!  Miss  Esmonde,  I 
shall  tarn  you  over  to  Mr.  Maitland  and  rob  you  of 
Mi.  Sumrier,  lest  you  escape  us  again.  Come,  all  o£ 
you.51 

There  was  an  expression  upon  her  countenance,  a 
•glitter  m  her  gray  eyes  that  was  absolutely  dangerous, 
and  as  Kirk  Maitland,  who  had  accompanied  her,  drew: 
Lillian's  hand  through  his  arm  and  followed  the  hos- 
tess incl  Sumner.  he  said,  quietly : 

"My  dear  girl,  you  have  ck-iic  a  very  unfortunate 
thing  for  yourself.  Of  course,  I  know  that  our  Lil 
could  never  by  any  chance  be  persuaded  to  give  up 
her  glorious  freedom  to  marry  anyone ;  but  that  young 
lady  is  in  love  with  Sumner.  She  is  not  a  person  to 
allow  anything  to  stand  between  her  and  revenge.  She 
is  to  be  his  wife  some  day,  and  she  will  never  forgive 
you  to  the  day  she  dies  for  the  words  that  both  she 
and  I  heard  Stunner  speak  to  you.  Besides  that,  Lil, 
I  don't  choose  that  you  should  have  the  attentions  of  ( 
that  young"  fool  I" 

But  Lillian  had  not  heard  the  latter  sentence. 
'•She  is  to  be  his  wife?"  she  whispered,  hoarsely. 
"Yes/9  returned  Maitland,  serenely.    "Did  he  men-  ; 
»tion  marriage  to  you?    Scoundrel!    That  is  his  way, 
i  of  accomplishing  an  end.    It  is  always  marriage  that 
!  he  talks,  but  it  never  comes  to  that.     He'll  get  a 
,  breach  of  promise  suit  on  his  hands  one  of  these  days, 
]  or  I'm  mistaken.    He  and  the  pretty  little  Langford 
are  to  be  married  in  December.     She  told  me  so  less 
than  ten  minutes  ago." 
"His  wife!" 
The  tone  had  changed  from  one  cr  despair  to  one  o£ 


gO  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

scorn,  and  Maitland  glanced  into  the  countenance  and 
noted  its  expression  with  relief. 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  laughed,  mentally.  "That  was  a 
capital  stroke!  Our  beautiful  dancing-girl  is  herself 
again.  Her  sentiment  froze  up  as  if  an  iceberg  had 
suddenly  struck  it.  She  is  as  beautiful  as  that  mpon- 
Jbeam,  and — just  as  cold.  God!  if  I  could  but.  melt 
*hat  ice !" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"Have  you  seen  him?    Have  you  asked  him?" 

Amy  was  waiting  for  her  sister  down  under  the 
apple-tree,  at  the  edge  of  the  orchard,  the  single  lux- 
ury allowed  the  family  of  Jonathan  Esmonde. :  Her 
usually  pale  cheeks  were  crimson.  Her  eyes  glistened 
like  diamonds  under  her  excitement.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  tightly  upon  her  heaving  boson,  and  her  .voice, 
as  she  put  her  query,  was  hoarse  with  eagerness. 

"Yes,"  answered  Lillian,  looking  half  tremulously;! 
at  the  little  deformed  thing.  "I  have  seen  him  and  I 
have  asked  him." 

"He  has  consented.  I  see  it  in-  your  face !"  panted 
the  child.  "Oh,  tell  me  quick !" 

Lillian  seated  herself  on  the  long  grass  tinder  the 
tree,  and  pulled  the  little  one  down  beside  her. 

"It  was  a  long  fight,"  she  answered,  wearily.  "He 
,  absolutely  refused  at  first,  but  I  managed,  somehow, 
to  make  him  see  how  ungenerous  he  was,  and  he  gave 
in  at  last." 

Lillian  expected  an  outburst  of  thanksgiving-,  but.  to 


LIL,    THE    D  ,IRL  .5^ 

fcer  surprise,  Amy  dropped  her  pretty  head,  and  a  per- 
fect passion  of  tears  followed. 

"Why,  little  one!"  exclaimed  the  older  girl,  sooth- 
ingly, "Tear  y?  Aren't  you  glad?  i  expected 
you  to  be  all  smiles,  all  deli 

]     "It  is  a  delight  beyond  smiles !"   cried  Amy,  brok* 

'cnly.    "It  deeper  than  that.    It  is  the  hope  of 

Oh,  think  !    Think  what  it  will  be  to— 

to  be  as  you  are.    Think  what  it  mea:i-  to  stand  erect 

under  God's  stUL     Thin!-:  what  it  means  to  walk,  to 

leap  as  others  do,  to  be  without  this  unceasing  agony; 

to  that  look  of  scorching  pity  upon  tha 

face    of    any    one    who    gazes    upon    you,      a     pity 

that  ;  yor.r  h  liame  because  the 

;>ut  upon  you  that  places  you  between 

A  of  the  brute  and  man." 

•  rm  of  passion  in  the  words  and  tone 
that  Lillian.    She  put  her  arm  about  her 

and  drew  her  to  her. 

h,  darling!"  she  murmured,  "you  must  not  hope 
tao  strongly.     Suppose,  after  all,  it  should  i 

'God  would  never  be  so  cruel!'1  answered  Amy, 
!y.    "What  have  I  done  that  such  a  curse  should 
*be  sent  upon  me?" 

1  '  r.ut  dear,  dear,  remember  that  others,  hundreds, 
;  ate  like  you— worse,  perhaps.  They  bear  the  burden 
j  patiently,  and — " 

"But  they  have  fathers  to  help  them.  It  is  not  my 
life  they  lead.  There  is  something  for  them  beyond 
this  eternal  silence  and  emptiness.  In  these  few  weeks 
with  you  I  have  learned  what  life  is,  and  I  could  never 
g-o  back  to  the  old  routine.  I  never  could.  Don't  de- 
stroy my  hope,  Lillian.  It  would  be  death.  I  know 


52  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

you  do  it  because  you  fear,  because  you  are  the  best 
sister  that  God  ever  gave  a  girl,  but — don't!  don't  1 
Oh,  Lily,  I  love  you  so !  I  love  you  so !" 

She  Hid  her  quivering  face  upon  her  sister's  bosom 
and  wept  again,  then  she  lifted  it  with  the  smites 
breaking  through  like  the  sun  from  behind  a  cloud. 

"I  feel,"  she  cried,  "as  if  I  could  get  up  and  dance 
the  fantastic  things  you  used  to  do,  I  am  so  happy. 
But  oh,  Lily,  suppose  I  should  be  a  burden  upon  you  f, 
Suppose  there  should  not  be  enough  for  two,  and — " 

"Hush !"  interrupted  the  elder  girl,  her  face  crim- 
soning with  the  old  shame.  "There  will  be  enough, 
more  than  enough.  You  need  not  worry,  and — " 

She  paused  and  glanced  up.  She  had  heard  a  foot- 
fall, and  as  she  lifted  her  eyes,  she  saw  Philip  Sum- 
ner  standing  there  before  her. 

There  was  sadness,  reproach  in  his  eyes,  a  heart- 
hunger  that  was  piteous;  but  a  band  of  ice  seemed  to 
encompass  her  as  she  looked  into  his  face. 

She  put  her  sister  aside,  and  rose  stiffly. 

Amy  also  struggled  to  her  feet,  and  while  she  was 
doing  it,  cried  cut : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Sunnier,  I  am  so  glad  youVe  come! 
You've  always  been  so  kind  to  me.  and  I  am  glad  thai 
you  will  be  the  first  to  know.  She  has  done  it — ao 
tually  accomplished  it,  and  I  am  to  go  to  New  York 
with  her  when  she  goes.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything 
so  glorious?" 

He  took  both  the  little  hands  in  his  and  pressed 
them  warmly. 

"I  congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart/5  he  said, 
earnestly.  "First  upon  the  permission  you  have 
gained,  and  next  upon  having  so  good  a  sister.  I 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  SJ 

need  not  tell  you  of  all  the  good  results  that  I  hope 
for/1 

"No;  I  was  so  sure  you  would  be  pleased." 

"And  you  were  quite  right.  May  I  ask  what  the 
plans  are.  Miss  Esmonde?  Is  she  to  go  into  a  hospi* 
tal  at  once?  I  suppose  it  will  be  an  hospital?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Lillian,  striving  with  all  her  might 
to  keep  her  voice  steady  and  indifferent.  "It  shall  be 
an  hospital,  and  at  once.  Amy  thinks  there  is  not  a 
moment  to  be  lost,  and  I  agree.  At  all  events  the  doc- 
tors will  1  ave  an  obedient  pupil,  and  one  for  whom 
hope  and  de  1  accomplish  mn 

"And  that  is  half  the  battle,"  said  Sumner,  nodding1 

cad  encouragingly.    "I  may  be  permitted  to 
•  ,  may  I  not,  little  one?" 

"Oh,  I  hope  you  will.  It  is  so  good  of  you  to  think 
of  it 

She  started  to  limp  away,  nodding  over  her  shout* 
cler  smilingly,  and  Lillian  asked,  hastily: 

"\\hcre  are  you  going?" 

"To  tell  mother." 

"I  will  go  with  you.    You  will  excuse  us,  Mr. 


"Not  unless  I  must,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her 
curiously.  "Won't  you  stay?  I  have  something  to 

i  fcay  to  you." 

|  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  threw  up  her  head 
*vith  a  haughty  movement  to  which  he  was  unaccus- 


Sumner  was  a  trifle  discomfited.     He  stood  for  a 
le  time  awkwardly,  then  said,  wistfully: 
"How  have  I  offended  you,  Miss  Esmonde  ?' 
She  laughed  lightly,  just  slightly  frostily.      If  he 


'54  LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

could  have  seen  what  it  cost  her,  it  might  have 
much  of  the  trouble  of  the  after-time.    But  what 
ever  did  see  below  the  surface  of  a  woman's  laugh? 

''You  have  not  offended  me,  Mr.  Sumner,"  she  air> 
swered,  carelessly. 

I     It  hurt  him  worse  than  an  acknowledgment  of  tha  c 
charge  would  have  done — infinitely  worse.    But  there  * 
were  the  words  Kirk  Maitland  had  spoken,  stinging 
through  her  brain  in  voiceless  clamor : 

"She  is  to  be  his  wife  some  day!" 

"He  is  amusing  himself  with  a  little  country  girl/* 
she  continued,  mentally.  ''He  will  marry  her;  bu^ 
what  matter  if  the  little  country  school-teacher  must 
suffer  eternally  because  of  his  faithlessness?  Well,  he 
does  not  know  Lil  the  dancing-girl.  I  will  make  him 
understand." 

And  then,  with  the  resolve  in  her  heart  which  he 
could  not  read,  she  smiled  again. 

"Are  you  quite  sure?"  he  asked,  humbly.  "You  are 
so  cold,  so  frosty.  Lily,  I  told  you  the  other  night  of 
xny  love,  and  since  then  you  have  avoided  me.  Do  you 
know  what  it  was  I  thought  ?  That  you  meant  to  pun- 
ish me  for  my  presumption." 

"He  does  it  well!"  she  ejaculated,  mentally,  her 
scorn  almost  uncontrollable ;  but  she  leaned  just  a  trifle 
toward  him  as  she  replied,  seductively: 

"Presumption  in  man  is  like  bravery ;  his  character  I 
is  nothing  without  it.    But  both  are  sometimes  carried 
a  little  too  far,  and  then  we  call  it  fool-hardy." 

"Have  I  been  fool-hardy,  Lily?" 

"You  are  like  a  child  who  pleads  for  that  which  is 
denied,"  she  said,  laughing.  "Force  accomplished 
more  oftentimes  than  pleading." 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRU  $g 

He  looked  at  her  curioi; 

"I  wish  2  could  understand  you,"  he  said,  with  a 
little  sigh.  "You  seem  changed  somehow.  Little  one, 
when  we  were  interrupted  the  other  night,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  my  soul  was  standing  at  the  open  door  to 
Paradise.  Has  it  closed  to  me  since  then  ?" 

She  controlled  the  curling  scorn  of  her  lip  by  a 
smile. 

"You  have  not  sought  for  admission  since  then,* 
the  answered,  lightly. 

"Ali !  you  are  wrong.  I  was  here  yesterday,  ami  the 
day  before,  and  the  day  before  that,  but  you  would 
not  see  me.  You  know  that.  It  was  that  reason  that 
made  me  believe  that  I  had  unconsciously  given  of* 
fense.  Why  was  it,  Li!; 

"Amy  was  ill,"  she  answered,  demurely. 

4i\Yas  that  the  only  reason?''  he  questioned,  eagerly. 
"Oh,  darling,  if  you  knew  how  I  have  longed  for  the 
answer  to  my  question!  Won't  you  speak,  my  pure, 
white  Lily?" 

He  put  out  his  arms  to  draw  her  to  him,  but  she 
stepped  out  of  his  way. 

"What  was  the  question?"  she  asked,  with  the  laugh 
still  lingering  on  her  lips. 
j     "If  you  love  me,"  he  answered,  slowly. 

If  he  had  said,  "Will  you  be  my  wife?"  she  might 
have  informed  him  of  what  had  been  told  Her.    She 
'  might  have  denounced  him,  and  so  received  ati  ex- 
planation of  the  lie  that  had  been  told  her;  but  she 
only  replied,  lightly : 

"You  must  wait  for  your  answer  to  that.  I  have 
known  you  too  short  a  time.  Do  you  remember  how 
Jacob  served  for  Rachel?*' 


56  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

"Arid  is  that  my  sentence,  Lily  ?" 

She  nodded  brightly  as  Kirk  Maitland  came  into 
view. 

lie  had  heard  the  conversation,  and  a  grim  expres* 
sion  set  his  cruel,  thin  lips. 

"She  means  to  have  her  revenge/'  he  muttered  to 
Iiirnself ;  "but  I  don't  care  to  risk  it.  Not  that  I  mind 
tier  throwing  him  higher  than  a  kite  if  it  were  sure  to 
end  there,  but  it  isn't.  -It's  a  dangerous  game,  and 
she  might  find  out  the  truth/1 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"Ah,  Lil !  Back  again !  My  dear  girl,  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you !  Do  stand  off  there  and  let  me  look  at 
you!" 

The  room  in  which  Paul  Chetwynd  stood  before  Lil- 
lian was  a  large  and  airy  one,  with  a  smooth,  inlaid 
"floor  and  little  furniture.  What  there  was  of  it  was 
good  quality,  though  not  pretentious,  but  beyond  it, 
discernible  through  the  light  summer  portiere,  was  a 
dainty  salon,  all  cream  and  gold,  that  a  fairy  mighty 
have  envied. 

She  drew  herself  away  from  Chetwynd,  who  had 
taken  her  by  the  shoulders,  and  threw  herself  into  a 
chair  with  a  little  laugh. 

"Heavens !"  she  exclaimed,  wearily  lifting  the  damj> 
hair  from  her  brow.  "How  good  it  seems  to  be  back. 
I  think  another  week  of  it  would  have  killed -me!" 

Chetwynd  looked  at  her  critically. 

"And  it  hasn't  done  you  an  atom  of  good !    I  never 


2-IL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  57 

did  believe  in  sacrificing  one's  self.  It's  a  beastly  bore, 
does  no  good.  You've  lost  ten  pounds  at  least, 
and  there  are  actually  circles  under  your  eyes,  like, 
the  heroine  of  a  dime  novel.  I  say,  you  haven't  beer? 
falling  in  love,  have  you,  L: 

r  the  lo  .  drop  that  name,  and  don't 

make  a  donk  she  exclaimed,  fretfully. 

•  "It  isn't  like  M   fellov,  I'   to 

•  death  up  there,  and  ! 

"Then  you  1:. 

The  gesture  of  sec:  -ay, 

••Thetwynd  only  laughed. 

in  my   line  I  ted 

"Hut  who  do  you  suppose  turned  up  the 

"Ruli.'  •  k  Maitlaivl.  I  nearly  drr 

"Then   I   supp  ry  count:  skin   in   the 

whole  State  knows  the  truth  ;  ::me." 

.'•>;  on  the  contrary,  he  acted  surpr  ell, 

all  things  considered.  You  know  I  have  not  been  any 
too  sweet  to  Maitland,  and  I  rather  feared  he  would 
take  a  d<  ing  me,  but  he  didn't.  The 

fact  is,  I  shall  have  to  treat  him  tetter  in  future,  and 
the  prospect  isn't  pleasant." 

hat  a  girl  you  are,  Lil !    I  don't  believe  you  have 
an  atom  of  heart  in  your  whole  body." 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  you  were  right!''  she  exclaimed, 
grimly.  "I  do,  upon  my  soul!  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
something,  Chet,  that  will  surprise  you.  Do  you  know: 
that  I  came  very  near  giving  up  the  whole  busine 
shaking  the  whole  thing  ancf  returning  to  that  place 
that  once  seemed  nothing  short  of  perdition  to  me? 


58  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

j| 

I  know  you  will  think  me  mad,  and  perhaps  I. was," 
but  it's  the  solemn  truth,  for  all  that.  Poor  little 
mother!  What  is  to  become  of  her  in  the  awful  soli- 
tude, is  more  than  I  can  imagine!  And  then — I  am 
sure  that,  in  spite  of  all  my  father's  faults,  he  really./' 
loves  me.  I  know  he  does,  poor  old  dad!  You  would"; 
be  sorry  for  him  if  you  could  see  how  proud  he  is  of 
his  little  school-teacher  !" 

"He  would  be  prouder  than  that  if  he  could  see  you 
dance/' 

"Never !  He  would  despise  me.  He  would  separate 
me  eternally  from  mother  and  Amy,  and—and — I 
couldn't  bear  that,  Chet.  They  are  the  only  two  in  the 
.whole  world  who  really  love  me." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously  for  a  moment,  noting  the 
strained  expression  about  the  beautiful  eyes,  then 
said,  softly: 

"You  always  leave  me  out.   Do  I  count  for  noth-f 
ing?" 

"Oh,  bother !    I  am  not  talking  about  that !     I  am 
talking  about  love  that  is  really  love.    Oh,  you  don't 
understand  that  sort  of  thing  at  all.     YouVe  always 
been  good  to  me,  Chet,  but  how  long  would  you  love 
me  if  I  should  fail  to  kick  the  object  you  hold  over  my j 
head?     How  long  would  I  remain  the  idol  you  call) 
me  if  I  should  fail  in  a  step  which  you  have  taken  so 
much  pains  to  teach  me?     It's  another  thing  alto* 
gether,  old  fellow!" 

She  was  not  looking  at  him,  but  out  of  the  window: 
into  the  sultry  street,  looking  dreamily,  not  realizing 
what  she  was  saying,  but  rather  talking  as  a  parrot 
Jalks,  without  consideration. 
,    She  did  not  see  the  expression  that  had  darkened 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  59 

5'iyes,  the  eyes  that  had  lighted  with  such  pleasure 

ner  entrance. 

He  had  not  seated  himself,  and  once  he  took  a  step 
,Tard  her  impetuously,  but  in  the  next  he  had  re- 
ned  control  of  himself,  and,  with  a  gesture  of  de- 
ciation,  leaned  against  the  window-casing.  He  did 

)t  speak  to  her  immediately,  but  when  he  did  his 

>ice  was  quite  calm. 

''It  is  no  use  to  contradict  you,"  he  said,  slowly. 

fou  never  believed  in  the  sincerity  of  the  affection  of 

y  one,  and  it  is  a  waste  of  breath  to  try  to  convince 

>u«    But  I'm  heartily  glad  you  didn't  adhere  to  that 

st  impulse  and  remain.    It  is  no  worse  for  the  little 

other  than  it  was  before/' 

"Yes,  it  is.    I've  brought  Amy  with  me." 

"What!     Are  you  crazy?" 

"Xot  far  from  it,  I  think,"  she  answered,  laughing. 

She  has  taken  it  into  her  head  that  she  can  be  cured, 
her  deformity,  and  I  have  taken  her  to  the  New 

ork  Hospital." 

"Is  there  anything  you  would  not  do  if  they  asked 

u?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment  before  replying. 

"I  don't  think  there  is,  Chet,"  she  said,  slowly. 
You  said  a  moment  ago  that  I  did  not  have  an  atom 

heart,  and  yet— I  really  think  that  I  long  for  love — 

d  earnest,  sincere,  saving  loving,  as  mortal  never 

nged  in  all  this  world.    I  believe  my  mother  and  my 

ster  would  hate  me  if  they  knew  and — " 

The  sentence  ended  with  a  dry,  choking  sob.  If  she 
lad  been  looking  at,  or  thinking  of  the  man  to  whom 
she  was  talking,  she  must  have  seen  how  her  words 
ouched  him — how  they  made  him  suffer.  Once  agaia 


1>C  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

it  seamed  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  check  the* 
flow  of  words  that  arose  to  his  lips,  but  another  search* 
ing  look  into  her  unanswering  face  silenced  him. 

"You  don't  know  how  it  distresses  me  to  hear  you 
talk  like  that,  Lil,"  he  said,  softly.  "Why  should  they; 
not  love  you  because  you  dance?  If  you  were  any  less 
pure  than  one  of  the  ice  floes  from  a  northern  pass, 
then  they  might  find  some  fault.  But  who  knows  you 
so  well  as  I  ?  Not  even  yourself,  I  sometimes  think." 

"But  you  could  never  convince  the  world,  Chet.  I 
''know  you  would  if  you  could,  old  fellow,  and  I  am  a 
fool  to  whine  at  the  fortune  that  has  saved  me  from  a 
long  residence  in  Patter's  Field,  but  to  save  my  life  I 
can't  help  it  once  in  a  while.  You  could  never  con- 
vince them  that  anything  good  could  come  out  of 
Nazareth !" 

She  quoted  the  sentence  bitterly — the  one  that  she 
had  Spoken  to  Philip  Sumner  on  the  lawn  of  the  Lang^ 
ford  residence,  and  shivered  as  she  recalled  the  time. 

Chetwynd  walked  over  behind  her  chair.  His  hands 
were  in  his  pockets.  Perhaps  he  had  confined  them 
tliere  to  keep  from  taking  her  in  his  arms  to  comfort 
ber  in  the  grief  that  he  saw  was  tearing  her,  though 
he  could  not  quite  understand  it.  There  was  a  vivid 
color  in  his  cheeks  as  he  leaned  a  trifle  towards  her. 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  you  had  not  gone  there  I"  he  sai4 
quietly  but  fervently. 

"So  do  I,  Chet.  Upon  my  soul  I  do!"  she  cried,  so 
earnestly  that  he  started  slightly.  "It  is  worse  than 
laking  up  the  old  burden  anew,  a  thousand  times 
t/orse !" 

"And  I  have  been  cursed  enough  fool  to  ask  a  lot  of 
the  people  here  for  to-morrow  night  in  honor  of  your 


LJL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  6l» 

coxuing  home,  I've  ordered  a  dinner  from  Sherry  and 
no  end  of  a  blow  out,  and  you  in  this  humor.  I  wish 
to  Heaven  I  could  content  myself  sometimes  with  at- 
tending to  my  own  business,  but  it  seems  I  never  can/' 

Lillian  laughed  at  his  rueful  tone.  It  was  the  first 
thing  that  had  seemed  to  arouse  her. 

'I'm  heartily  glad  you  have!"  she  cried,  looking  to- 
wards him  through  a  heavy  moisture  in  the  eyes  which 
he  saw  clearly  enough.  "It  is  just  what  I  need.  Put 
me  to  work  at  once,  diet,  with  not  a  moment  for 
thought,  and  when  I  must  stop  dancing,  surround  me 
.with  the  gayest  company  you  can  find.  I  tell  you 
frankly,  I  don't  like  the  mood  into  which  I  have  fal- 
len. You  say  I  have  lost  ten  pounds.  I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  diet,  that  I  have  not  slept  two  hours  a' 
night  in  over  a  week.  It  isn't  like  me,  and — and— * 
upon  my  soul,  I'm  afraid.  Let  them  all  come,  Chet, 
and  make  them  come  often.  When  does  the  engage- 
ment begin,  old  man?" 

"The  twenty-sixth  of  August,  and  to-morrow  will  be 
the  eighth.  But  there  is  so  much  to  be  done  between 
now  and  then.  I  want  you  to  make  a  great  hit  in  this 
piece,  Lil.  I've  made  magnificent  terms." 

"Never  mind  the  terms.  They  are  always  magnifi- 
cent. Only  I  wish  the  work  began  to-day." 

"You  need  rest,  dear." 

"Pouf !    Don't  I  tell  you  how  impossible  that  is?" 

"Then  let  the  real  work  begin  to-day,  the  work  ofi 
rehearsing.  I've  invented  a  new  dance,  and  one  I  think" 
you  will  like.  If  you  can  only  do  one  thing,  I  am  quite 
sure  of  a  sensation." 

"Oh,  Chet,  how  good  you  are,  old  fellow.  Why,  Fnt 
interested  already,  and  I  never  expected  to  be  again. 


62  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  j 

Make  me  work.  Don't  give  me  time  to  think,  just  yel 
When  there  is  no  more  work  to  do,  spend  all  the  rnag 
nificent  salary  of  which  you  spoke  to  entertain  ou 
friends.  You  will  help  me,  won't  you,  old  man?" 

The  light  in  her  eyes  was  almost  glassy  as  she  !ifte< 
them  to  those  of  her  dancing-master — her  friend.  H< 
sighed  a  trifle  under  the  smile  that  he  forced  to  hi; 
lips. 

" You  know  I  will,  Lily,"  he  answered,  gently. 

But  she  shrunk  back  from  him  as  if  he  had  met  he: 
request  with  a  blow. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  call  me  that!''"  she  exclaimed 
shudderingly.  "I  want  to  forget  it.  I  tell  you  I  mus 
forget  it.  I  am  Lil!  Lil  the  dancing-girl.  The  othe: 
life  is  ended  forever,  and  with  it  goes  the  old  name 
There  is  no  nope  for  me,  diet.  I  have  chosen  my  life 
and  I  must  follow  it  to  the  end !" 


CHAPTER  X. 


If  Lil  had  been  beautiful  on  the  night  of  the  datic 
given  by  Miss  Langford,  she  was  magnificent,  glor 
ious,  upon  the  evening  of  the  dinner  which  Paul  Che 
wynd  had  ordered  in  her  honor. 

Her  s'piriiuelle  beauty  had  never  shone  out  so  rarel} 
so  perfectly,  as  upon  that  occasion.  She  wore  a  gowi 
of  downy  white  chiffon  embroidered  in  the  most  ar 
tistic  cf  pale-pink  rosebuds,  with  tremendous  puffs  01 
the  shoulders  of  palest  pink  velvet.  The  very  lav 
corsage  was  finished  with  a  fall  of  Iacev  and  fastene 
from  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  glittering-  diamonc 


1-IL,   Till  N'G-GIRL  ^6j 

that  flashed  their  prismatic  fires  dazzlingly.  Her  beau- 
tiful  hair  was  parted,  falling  away  at  the  sides  in  little 
rippling  curls,  and  fastened  in  the  center  above  the 
forehead  with  a  simple  diamond  star. 

Chetwynd  caught  his  breath  as  she  came  from  hen 
own  bijou  boudoir  into  the  dancing-room,  which  they; 
had  converted  temporarily  into  a  salon.  It  was 
lighted  with  electricity  under  colored  globes,  and  as 
she  entered,  Chetwynd.  in  regulation  evening  clothes, 
went  toward  her. 

"What  have  you  done  to  yourself,  chenef*  he  asked, 
as  he  took  her  hand.  "Upon  my  soul,  you  dazzle  me! 
You  look  like  some  spiritual  creation  colored  by  an 
artist's  fancy.  You  are  always  beautiful,  but  to-night 
the  word  does  not  describe  you/' 

A  smile,  that  gfitterej  under  all  ks  bitterness,  lighted 
her  features. 

"Do  you  think  my  father  would  say  that  if  he  could 
see  me  now  ?"  she  asked,  unable  to  keep  the  scorn  out 
of  her  voice.  "Do  you  think  he  would  call  me  beauti- 
ful?" 

Chetwynd  hesitated. 

"He  knows  nothing  of  (he  world,"  he  answered  at 
last  slowly.  "He  would  not  understand  what  the 
world  approves/' 

"You  mean  he  would  not  understand  that  undress; 
constitutes  the  full  dress  of  society/'  she  exclaimed  in 
the  same  tone,  "and  that  in  our  world  we  only  observe 
the  extremes  of  fashion.  But  his  world  is  not  mine, 
and  mine  is  not  his,  and — there  is  the  bell,  thank 
God!" 

Her  expression  changed  as  if  by  magic.  There  was 
ujrer  the  look  of  bitter  scorn  in- the  lovely 


64  LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL' 

but  a  brilliancy  that  startled  Chetwynd.    He  watched 
;  her  closely  for  a  time,  but  as  the  guests  began  to  ar- 
rive  rapidly,  his  vigilance  waned. 

The  last  he  saw  of  her  she  was  standing  beside  a 
.woman,  whom,  in  derision,  they  called  Mag,  a  contrac- 
tion of  Marguerite,  which  referred  to  the  Marguerite 
Gautier,  more  familiarly  known  as  "Camille."  The 
woman  was  chic  to  a  degree  that  attracted  universal 
admiration,  always  clothed  in  spotless  white  —  an  ac- 
tress affected  with  that  fatal  malady  that  destroyed 
Camille  in  the  very  presence  of  her  happiness. 

Her  name,  the  one  that  appeared  on  the  play-bill, 
was  Nathalia  Vinita.  No  one  knew  whether  she  was 
born  so  or  not,  and  no  one  cared.  To  her  intimates 
she  was  "Mag,"  to  others  Miss  Vinita,  and  —  that  was 
all. 

There  »were  those  who  said  she  played  Camille  con- 
stantly in  private  life,  but  certainly  any  exercise  that 
•was  unwonted  brought  the  crimson  stain  to  her  hand- 
kerchief that  characterized  the  person  after  whom  she 
•was  called. 

|  She  was  not  beautiful,  but  worse  —  fascinating,  and 
as  she  stood  there  beside  Lil,  they  formed  a  picture 
that  would  have  attracted  attention  in  any  salon. 

"Ah  you  can't  imagine  how  we  have  missed  you, 
cherie"  she  was  saying  to  Lil  in  her  indolent,  attrac- 
tive drawl.    "I  should  have  taken  to  my  heels  and 
•scampered  over  to  Europe  in  sheer  despair  if  I  had 
not  received  the  note  from  old  Chet  just  as    I    did,' 
Heavens!    There  has  been  nothing!    Quiet  is  some-1 
thing  that  I  should  die  under.    Did  you  enjoy  youtj 


Teuf  1"  exclaimed  Lil,  with  aa»upward  shrug  of  ber 


IRL  6g 

)   shoulders.     "Does  one  ever  enjoy  doing  one'? 

There  would  be  no  credit  in  the  \  nice 

if  one  should.     Under  those  cirv  mid 

cease  to  be  duty,  and  i  of  pleasure,  and 

then  ould  come  in  t!  .lion 

one's  back  del;  approving  con- 

iat  when  God  made  u>?  He 

'.o  ignited  fires  into  one.    One  is  divinity — th 

:ell." 
':gO 

"I  recognize  the  one,  but  not  the  otlu 

-  life  is  e  into  a 

blaze  of  glory  is  nothiiu 

^n  of  air.     . 
would  be 

:lon. 
^  is 
a  foil  been  guilty.    You  r 

:  wrong-doer  goes  scot- 
tells 

:he  only  po 
• 
the  only  i  ever  allow  n  >.e  who  d 

:ne  lines  ir>  not  a  philosopher." 
"I  rail,  •  are  rittr'  i  Lil,  mus- 

'.ould  like  you  to  tell  me  what  nar* 
1  to  lull  it  to  sleep.*' 

xclaimed  Mis'  \  nore  energy 

than  shown — "action!     I  nv  inv- 

.     i  never  see  anything  but  the  pica -ant 

T  nev<  v  chance  consider  the 

e.    She  who  does  that  is  lost  to  happiiu     .     Each 


.    1 1 

keptfl 


66  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIEL 

individual  day  in  my  life  takes  care  of  itself.  I  see  "all 
jl  can  of  the  people  I  like,  and  never  bother  myself 
with  Others.  Consideration  of  one's  neighbor  iray  be 
charity,  but  it  is  much  pleasanter  to  do  one's  charity; 
Work  through  institutions  that  live  by  contribution. 
fill  each  day  as  full  as  the  hours  W7ill  hold.  It  has 
me  alive  when  doctor's  stuffs  would  have  killed  me 
long  ago." 

"I  think  your  prescription  is  good.  Perhaps  I  shall 
need  a  few  lessons  before  I  really  learn  to  follow  it 
with  sufficient  care.  Will  you  give  them  to  me  ?" 

"With  pleasure.    There  is  Felix!" 

A  peculiar-looking  man  had  entered  the  room — a 
man  with  a  large  head,  made  to  appear  larger  by  a 
great  shock  of  half-curly  hair  thiown  back  from  the 
forehead  after  the  manner  of  musicians.  He  went  at 
once  to  the  side  of  his  hostess,  his  eyes  lighting  with  a 
peculiar  fire.  i 

"It  has  been  slower  than  death  without  you,"  he 
whispered  as  he  held  her  hand.    "What  a  beastly  bore* 
life  would  be  without  our  special  goddesses !     diet-* 
;wynd  tells  me  you  are  going  to  dance  for  us  tonight/' 

"He  shouldn't  have  done  it.  I  was  reserving  it  foiv 
a  surprise." 

"He  told  me  because  he  wanted  me  to  bring1  certaftl 
music  to  play  for  you." 

"You  play  for  me  to  dance?" 

.    He  was  the  greatest  musician  of  the  age,  and  h&" 
condescension  surprised  her. 

"Yes.  It  is  an  honor  to  play  for  such"  dancing  as 
yours.  Are  you  going  to  do  it  in  that  costume?" 

She  smiled. 
'At  "It  might  be  suitable  for  minuet,  but  that  is  not  itf 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  €/ 

my  line.  I  have  a  startling  one  that  arrived  from  Paris 
yesterday  afternoon.  I  am  going  to  try  it  this  evening. 
Dinner?  That  is  not  unpleasant." 

It  was  rather  noisy,  but  delightful — one  of  those 
affairs  in  which  Bohemia  delights,  where  every  one 
knows  every  one  else,  and  has  no  fear  whatever  of  mis- 
construction. As  the  wine  flowed  the  fun  became  fast 
and  furious.  There  was  no  one  intoxicated,  nor  yet 
no  one  present  who  failed  to  feel  its  influence. 

Lil  had  never  been  in  such  a  mood  in  her  life,  and 
more  than  once  Chetwynd's  watchful  eyes  were  cast  in 
JKT  direction  with  a  clog-like  devotion  that  few  at  that 
Aable  failed  to  recognize,  but  to  which  Lil  was  utterly 
Wind. 

More  guests  arrived  when  the  dinner  was  over,  but 
\hc  buffet  in  the  dining-room  supplied  the  inner  man, 
i*nd  the  clock  was  upon  the  stroke  of  twelve  when  Lil 
« Mired  to  her  room,  while  Amilia  de  Marveaux  was 
ng  a  chansonctte  which  she  was  to  do  at  the  music 
Jiall  the  week  following. 

When  the  song  had  finished,  Felix  took  his  position 
at  the  piano. 

He  was  about  to  begin  his  prelude — such  a  one  as 
only  Felix  could  perform — when  the  entrance  of  an- 
other guest  attracted  Chetwynd's  attention. 

"You,  Fcrrande!"  he  exclaimed,  putting  out  his 
hand  cordially.  "I  thought  you  sailed  Wednesday. 
You  got  my  note,  then?" 

"I  think  that  had  as  much  to  'do  with  my  not  going 
as  anything  else.  Fact  ?.s,  Dazian  offered  too  tempting? 
a  salary  to  be  declined,  a.?J  I've  postponed  the  tramp 
till  next  year.  But  I  say,  The!:  ola  man,  I'm  afraid 
Tve  taken  a  great  liberty.  'An  :>rJ  *o!l*£e  chum  of 


68  1,1  L,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

mine  came  in  from  the  country  today,  and  as  every- 
thing is  so  dull,  and  he  seemed  rather  out  of  sorts,  I 
invited  him  here  for  an  evening  in  Bohemia.  Have  1 
imposed  upon  your  hospitality?'* 

"By  no  means.    Bring  him  in." 

And  as  Ferrande  left  the  room,  Felix  began  his 
prelude. 

,  It  began  with  a  dreamy,  improvised  movement,  that 
gradually  changed  to  a  quick  time  suitable  for  dancingf 
but  such  as  an  entire  orchestra  could  scarcely  equal, 
for  what  instrument  can  excel  the  piano  in  the  hands 
of  a  master?  It  glided  on  and  on,  becoming  with  eacli 
moment  more  joyous,  more  rollicking,  until  at  last  the 
tyorticres  were  thrown  aside,  and  Lil — Lil  the  dancing- 
girl — stood  before  them. 

Her  corsage  was  even  more  d&collete  than  before, 
her  beautiful  limbs  covered  with  flesh-colored  tights, 
and  about  her  an  airy  pink  gauze  light  as  down.  It 
;vvas  draped  in  a  fashion  that  Paris  alone  can  master—' 
artistic,  fascinating. 

She  leaped  into  their  midst  like  a  young  gazelle, 
just  as  light,  just  as  graceful;  and  as  she  piroutted 
upon  the  tips  of  her  dainty  toes  -it  the  beginning  of 
her  dance,  she  glanced  laughingly  in  the  direction  of 
Jier  teacher,  Chetwynd. 

But  it  was  not  into  his  eyes  she  looked. 

For  a  moment  the  room  seemed  to  grow  blacK 
before  her.  She  came  down  from  her  toes  and  groped 
blindly,  then  she  flung  up  her  head  and  laughed  out 
wildly.  ^ 

It  was  into  the  astonished,  horrified  eyes  of  Philip; 
Sumner  that  she  had  gazed. 


1IL,  THE   DANCING-GIRi;  (yj 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Lil  had  never  danced  in  her  life  as  she  did  that  even- 
ing. It  was  the  maddest,  merriest  whirl  that  could  be 
imagined.  It  seemed  that  she  would  never  tire;  but 
each  shout  of  approval  from  the  enthusiastic  spectators 
seemed  to  add  more  fuel  to  the  fire  in  her  soul. 

She  had  never  attempted  before  the  feats  that  she 
seemed  to  perform  with  ease  that  night,  and  Chetwynd 
leaned  wonderingly  against  the  door-casing  with  his 
arms  folded  upon  his  breast. 

"She  is  a  marvel!"  he  said  to  himself  a  dozen  times. 
"It  must  be  the  spirit  of  Beelzebub  that  has  got  into 
her.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it." 

The  public,  that  public  that  will  attend  a  French' 
ball  one  evening  and  draw  its  smile  into  Plymouth 
Rock  primness  on  the  next,  might  not  have  approved 
of  all  that  she  did,  for  indeed  the  spirit  of  Beelzebub 
did  seem  to  possess  her,  as  Chetwynd  had  said.  The 
spectators  laughed  one  moment  in  side-splitting 
amusement  and  watched  with  breathless  intent  the 
next ;  but  one  there  was  who  could  see  nothing  but 
horror  in  the  performance,  and  looked  on  with  the 
dismay  he  felt  but  too  surely  pictured  in  his  counten- 
ance. 

That  one  was  Philip  Sumner. 

He  neither  moved  nor  spoke  until  the  dance  had 
come  to  an  end,  until  the  wild  shouts  of  bravo  had 
subsided,  until  the  people  who  had  sourrounded  Lil 
to  shake  her  hand  in  congratulation  had  left  her  side, 
ind  then  he  went  up  to  her. 

She  was  still  in  tights,  with  that  diaphanous  drapery 


"TO*  lit,    THE    DANCING-GIRL' 

floating  about  her.  He  half  expected — hoped — that 
she  would  shrink  from  him,  but  she  met  his  eye  mock- 
ingly, indifferently. 

"Halloo,  old  man '!"  she  cried  out,  dauntlessly.    "You* 
look  as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost!    I  hope  it's  the  one  o£j 
that  school-teacher  you  met  up  in  the  country.    She  is 
dead,  you  know,  but  her  spirit  does  not  deserve  to  rest 
in  peace." 

If  he  could  have  seen  how  she  was  suffering,  rte 
might  have  taken  her  to  his  heart  and  have  forgivert 
and  saved  her ;  but  lie  did  not.  He  only  saw  the  smit- 
ing face,  the  limbs  covered  with  tights,  the  total  lack 
of  shame,  the  depravity  of  her  manner. 

It  was  the  most  horrible  shock  that  he  had  even 
received  in  his  life. 

He  had  looked  upon  her  as  the  purest,  bravest,  most 
loyal  woman  he  had  ever  known,  and  now — An  oppres- 
sion of  disgust  tied  his  tongue.  It  seemed  to  him  at 
that  moment  that  he  had  never  despised  a  human  crea- 
ture on  all  God's  earth  as  he  despised  her. 

He  remembered  all  the  country  folk  had  said  of  her, 
of  the  bravery  and  simplicity  of  her  sweet  life,  and 
contrasted  the  story  they  had  told  with  this  scene — • 
with  that  lovely,  shameless  face  that  was  upturned 
to  his. 

He  suffered  enough  in  that  moment  to  amend  a 
thousand  errors. 

And  then  a  great  grief  seemed  to  come  over  him. 
\If  Lil  had  not  been  half  blind  from  the  agony  upon 
her,  she  might  have  seen  that  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"Don't  speak  of  that — of  her — here!"  he  said  in  a 
low  tone.  "You  are  right.  The  little  school-teacher 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL:  71 

is  dead,  but  I  think  her  death  has — has  broken  my 
heart!" 

She  looked  at  him  mockingly. 

"Hearts  don't  break !"  she  exclaimed,  with,  affected 
lightness,  smiling  at  him  dazzlingly.  ''Why  don't  you 
tell  me  that  you  admired  my  dancing?" 

"Because  I  did  not.  Oh,  Lily,  I  wish  you  had  died 
jwith  the  little  school-teacher!" 

"Pouf!  There  would  have  been  twenty  hearts 
broken  instead  of  one.  Besides,  I  am  Lil  here.  It 
must  be  Lil  or  nothing.  Remember  that  Is  Chet- 
.wynd  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"Whom  do  you  mean?" 

"Chetwynd,  my  old  teacher  over  there." 

"No.    I  never  met  him  until  tonight.    Ferrande — " 

"Oh,"  she  interrupted.  "Ned!  He  is  another  of 
my  old  loves.  Then  you  will  come  to  our  affairs 
often  ?" 

"These  things !  For  God's  sake,  do  you  give  them 
Often?" 

"No.  I  give  them  for  my  own  sake,  or  rather  Chet 
does,  which  is  quite  the  same  thing.  You  will  come 
often?" 

"No.  I  hope  to  Heaven  I  shall  never  see  your  face 
again  as  long  as  I  live !" 

She  laughed  outright. 

"But  you  will.  I  shall  send  you  a  special  invitation 
to  the  next.  You  will  come." 

"I  shall  not." 

"Is  it  to  be  a  wager?  All  right,  then.  A  box  of 
cigars  to  a  dozen  of  gloves.  Don't  distress  yourself 
about  the  brand  of  cigars,  because  you  won't  win. 
;\Vi)l  you  excuse  me?" 


tJ2  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

|"v  She  did  not  wait  for  his  reply,  but  slipped  sway; 
\vhile  some  one  else  was  singing,  and  returned  in  a 
surprisingly  short  time  in  the  costume  she  had  wora 
;earlier  in  the  evening. 

(t  In  spite  of  his  intention  to  go  at  once,  Philip  Stun- 
ner was  still  there,  talking  now  to  Mag,  to  whom  sorip 
one  had  presented  him.  He  turned  away  from  hec 
as  Lil  entered  and  looked  toward  her.  He  remem;* 
foered  the  night  of  the  country  dance  and  groaned. 
*  Could  this  be  the  same  girl  with  whom  he  had 
idanced  that  evening?  Was  it  possible  that  that  de- 
mure little  country  girl,  with  her  mull  gown  covering 
her  throat,  could  be  the  same  as  this  one,  this  with-^ 
lAh! 

The  thought  sickened  him,  and  yet,  in  his  own  walk 
in  life,  in  that  society  which  his  mother  valued,  ladies 
\vore  their  gowns  as  low  as  this  without  thought  of 
shame. 

He  felt  a  touch  from  Mag's  fan,  and  turned  to  her 
again. 

"Do  you  remember  the  story  of  the  moth  and  the 
'candle  ?"  she  asked  in  her  sweet,  indolent  drawl. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  absently. 

"Is  it  to  be  enacted  again  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Don't  imagine  that  I  take  you  for  an  unsophisti- 
cated young  school-boy,  but — don't  fall  in  love  wifli 
Lil." 

"Why?" 

"She  has  no  more  heart  than  that  statue  over  there. 
Love  is  as  necessary  to  her  as  the  air  she  breathes  ; 
but  there  is  one  word  that  contains  no  meaning  for 
her.  It  is  reciprocation.  She  would  allow  you  to 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  73 

spend  your  fortune  upon  hsr  this  week,  and  pass  you 
upon  the  street  without  recognition  the  next." 

"The  reputation  is  not  one  calculated  to  increase, 
one's  respect." 

Mag  shrugged   her  shoulders   indifferently. 

"Pourquoi?"  she  inquired.  "She  gives  nothing  in 
return" 

"iner  colored.  In  spite  of  his  recent  discovery, 
it  angered  him  to  hear  Lil  spoken  of  in  that  broad, 
almost  vulgar  way,  and  he  deserted  the  side  of  the 
woman  who  had  volunteered  the  information  without 
an  apology. 

It  was  indeed  the  moth  and  the  candle,  for  he  went 
at  once  to  Lil. 

e  glanced  up  with  a  forced  glitter  in  her  eye  and 
smiled,  determined  that  she  would  accomplish  the  end 
she  had  in  view. 

"Come  to  the  dining-room  for  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne?" she  exclaimed,  familiarly  putting  her  hanc£ 
upon  his  arm.  "I  am  dying  of  thirst." 

It  was  he  who  shrunk  away,  but  something  there 
\vas  in  her  manner  that  forced  him  to  obey. 

He  looked  down  upon  her  almost  fiercely  as  the/ 
stood  beside  the  buffet. 

"Why  have  you  done  this?"  he  asked,  savagely.  "Is 
it  trvie  that  you  have  no  heart?" 

She  made  a  little  graceful  gesture  of  annoyance. 

"The  dramatic  is  not  at  all  in  my  line!"  she  ex- 
claimed with  an  arch  glance.  "Come  off,  will  you? 
Amuse  me,  and  I  will — love  you,"  watching  him  close- 
ly from  under  her  half-shut  lids.  "Distress  or  bore 
me,  and  I  shall — cut  you.  Which  do  you  prefer?"  | 


PANCING-GIRL 

"The  latter,  by  all  means.  I  wish  to  Heaven  that 
I  could  hate  you." 

;  "But  you  can't.  There  is  no  one  that  ever  tried  it 
yet,  consequently  no  one  ever  succeeded.  You  won't 
be  the  first,  will  you  ?"  I 

She  was  laughing  at  him,  and  he  knew  it.  Yet,  forj 
all  that,  he  picked  up  the  glass  of  champagne .  and » 
^drained  it. 

"Who  is  this  Chetwynd?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 

"My  teacher/'  she  replied. 

"Nothing  else?  Swear  to  me  that  he  is  nothing 
else/' 

She  did  not  allow  him-  to  see  how  the  question  cut 
her.  She  put  her  pain  willfully  from  her,  and  an- 
swered lightly : 

"I  swear  it!  But  what  possible  difference  can  it 
inake  to  you?" 

"None — none  whatever,  I  assure  you.    I  am  going 
flow.    It  seems  to  me  that  it  has  been  an  evening  in 
perdition.    Before  I  go,  there  is  one  thing  I  want  to 
Jell  you :   I  saw  your  father  this  morning/' 
:,    For  the  first  time  she  colored  and  her  eyes  fell.  - 

"Well?"  she  whispered. 

"He  told  me  that  Amy  is  to  go  to  the  New  York 
Hospital.  Is  it  true?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  again,  with  her  eyes  still  on 
the  floor. 

"I  am  going  there  to  see  her  to-morrow/5 

She  lifted  her  eyes.  They  rested  pleadingly  on, his 
face. 

"Don't  tell  her!" ,she  exclaimed,  hoarsely,  .pausing 
painfully  Between  each  word.  "Don't ;  It  is  not  for—? 


UL,  THE  D,V  FRL;  75 ' 

my  sake,  but  hers.    It  would — kill  her !    For  the  lovft 
of  Heaven,  promise!'' 


CHAPTER  XII. 

''Philip!''. 

Philip  Sumner  was  standing  at  one  end  of  the  long 
room,  looking  moodily  from  the  window.  The  ends 
of  his  mustache  \vcre  between  his  teeth,  his  hands 
tin  the  pockets  of  his  trousers.  There  was  a  slight 
frown  between  his  brows,  and  his  face  was  ashen, 
colorless. 

He  started  as  the  low  tones  of  the  sweet  voice  pro- 
nouncing his  name  reached  him,  and  crossed  the  room 
at  once  to  the  side  of  the  little  lady  in  the  opposite 
window. 

She  was  a  beautiful  little  creature,  with  silvery  hair 
curling  about  a  brow  as  fair  as  that  of  a  young  girL 
There  was  a  wild  rose  flush  in  the  prettily  rounded 
cheeks  and  a  wistfulness  in  the  blue  eyes  that  were 
lifted  to  him  that  Philip  never  could  resist.  As  he 
reached  her  side,  the  tiny,  almost  childish  hand  was 
put  out  gropingly,  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  one 
realized  that  the  small,  snowy-haired,  dainty  creature 
was  blind. 

^  With  a  tenderness  that  was  touching,  Philip  took: 
the  little  hand  between  his  own  and  raised  it  to  his 
ftps. 

/'I  wish  I  could  always  be  so  near  you  when  you  call, 
[sweet  mother,"  he  said,  gently.    "What  :s  it,  dear?" 
\'l  want  yo*i  to  sit  down  here  closely  beside  me. 


$6  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

(where  I  can  feel  your  great  strength  for  awhile.    I 
am  sadly  in  need  of  it  to-day,  Phil." 

"Why?  Do  not  you  feel  well,  dear?  Has  anything 
gone  wrong?" 

{      She  sighed  a  little,  and  turned  her  sightless  eyes  f 
toward  the  window  as  he  drew  a  chair  up  beside  her* 
and  sat  there  holding  her  hand  affectionately.     She! 
rdid  not  reply  at  once,  and  he  sat  there  watching  the| 
expression  of  the  changing  face — watching  it  half  un- 
consciously, until  it  suddenly  dawned  upon  him  that 
there  was  more  of  pain  in  it  than  usual,  then  he  leaned 
•forward  and  kissed  her  cheek  lightly. 

"Something  is  worrying  you,  little  one,"  he  said, 
gently.  "What  is  it?" 

His  manner  almost  suggested  that  of  a  father  to  a 
'distressed  child,  and  a  slight  smile  crept  over  her  fac  -i 
as  she  turned  it  to  him  again. 

"There  are  several  things,  Phil,"  she  answered,  hot! 
;vcke  slightly  tremulous.  "I  want  to  ask  you  some- 
thing, dear,  and  am  half  fearful  of  giving  offense  J 
but— " 

He  interrupted  her  with  a  little  laugh  in  which  there 
was  not  a  ^reat  deal  of  mirth. 

"Did  you  ever  offend  me  in  your  life?"  he  askecft* 
(with  playful  mockery.  j, 

"No ;  but  there  are  certain  things  upon  which  a  man 
will  not  bear  questioning,  even  from  his  mother." 

"Not  from  such  a  mother  as  mine — my  other  self!" 
he  replied,  tenderly.  "What  is  it,  dear  little  one?" 

She  put  her  hand  gropingly,  pathetically,  until  it 
touched  his  cheek,  the  wistfulness  of  her  expression 
ideepening. 

"You  have  not  seemed— just  like  yourself,  my  boy, 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  7fl 

since  your  return  from  the  country/1  she  said,  slowly. 
"Phil,  dear,  did  anything  happen  between  you  and 
Olive  Langford  that — distressed  you?"  |( 

"Why,  no!"  he  answered,  half  laughing.  "AVhat 
made  you  think  that?" 

"You  have  been  so  silent,  so  unlike  yourself.  You 
are  not  happy,  Phil.  You  can  not  deceive  your  mother. 
The  blind  have  a  sixth  sense — the  ability  to  read  sil- 
ence—I  think.  What  is  the  matter  with  my  boy?" 

"You  are  worrying  yourself  foolishly,  little  one,1* 
he  answered,  with  an  assumption  of  lightness,  "I 
was  never  better  in  my  life-" 

"Physically,  perhaps,  but  not  mentally.  Did  you 
— have  you — asked  Olive  to — to  be  your  wife,  dear?"  . 

"No,  mother." 

"When  are  you  going  to  do  it,  Phil?" 

There  was  something  so  strange  and  strained  in 
her  voice  that  the  young  man  looked  at  her  curiously] 
before  replying. 

"Never!"  he  answered,  slowly.  J 

She  started  slightly.    He  observed  that  she  grew  a ' 
shade  paler  and  an  anxious  expression  dawned  in  the 
Hind  eyes.  !  \ 

1     "Why?"   she  asked,   hoarsely.     "You   love  Olive,.! 
•Phil?" 

>'      "As  I  might  a  sister,  but  not  as  my  wife,"  he  re-  , 
j  plied,  quietly. 

J      She  drew  her  hand  from  him,  not  suddenly,  but' 
slowly. 

"Phil,"  she  whispered,  "I—I  thought  you— loved 
her?" 

He  laughed  again.  r 

"Why,  no,  mother.    Qlive  Is  a  nice  girl,  a  dear  girl. 


$8  UL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL1 

but  a  man  does  not  want  to  marry  every  nice  girl.  1 
like  her,  but  as  for  love — oh,  gracious,  no !  There  is 
not  a  semblance  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  our  friend- 
ship/' 

Her  face  had  grown  whiter  and  whiter,  until  every 
particle  of  the  lovely  wild-rose  color  had  disappeared. 

He  observed  how  closely  the  small  hands  were 
£Ri:;pec!,  and  some  sort  of  anxiety  dawned  in  the  young 
juan's  breast,  apart  from  his  own  suffering. 

"What  is  the  matter,  little  mother  ?"  he  asked,  gent- 
ly. "Was  it  your  wish  to  see  Olive  my  wife?1'  j 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  hesitatingly,  hoarsely.  "I 
wished  it — above  all  things,  Phil/' 

"But  you  will  not  when  I  tell  you  that  there  is  no, 
love  in  my  heart  to  give  her/'  he  said,  quietly. 

"Is  there — is  there — any  one  else,  Phil?" 

He  did  not  see  the  quivering  of  her  lips,  the  strained 
-expression  of  the  face.  The  question  upset  him  too 
rnuch  for  that.  He  rose  suddenly  and  walked  across 
the  room;  then,  instead  of  returning  to  her,  he  leaned 
against  the  mantel-shelf  and  looked  down  at  her, 
Avoiding  the  range  of  the  blind  eyes.  I 

"No,  mother,"  he  answered  in  a  choked  sort  of  way. 

She  started  a  little  and  bent  her  head  forward  as  i£ 
&he  were  listening,  then  lifted  it  half  eagerly. 

"I  am  glad  of  that!"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  she  wer* 
fcreathing  more  freely.  ^i 

"Why?" 

"Because  it — it  makes  it  easier,  dear." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  during  which  she  clasped 
*nd  unclasped  her  fingers  nervously ;  then  Philip  went! 
lack  to  his  old  seat  and  took  her  hands  again.  9 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  he  asked,  gently.    "Something] 


LIL,  THE   DAVTCT \r-GTRL  7# 

distressing  you.    Won't  you  tel!  n\?  whst  it  is?" 
'  "Yes,  Phil,  because  I  must  tell  you ;  bur.  if  there' 
were  any  way  to  avoid  it,  I  would — I  would  give  my* 
life  to  do  it !"' 

She 'had  moistened  her  dry  lips  several  times  during* 
the  speech,  had  hesitated  over  the  utterance  of  the 
words  painfully,  and  when  she  ceased  speaking  hs 
observed  that  there  were  tears  in  hec  eyes. 
•     "Go  on,  little  mother,'*  he  said,  encouragingly. 

She  waited  a  moment  before  replying,  then  cried 
out: 

"Oh,  Phil,  I  thought  you  loved  her!" 
"And  now  that  you  know  I  do  not,  does  it  fret  ; 
so?     Had  you  so  set  your  heart  upon  my  marrying 
Olive,  mother?" 

"It  isn't  that,  dear— it  isn't  that!"  she  cried,  her 
voice  quivering  with  emotion,  as  she  caught  his  hands* 
more  closely  and  drew  him  to  her.    "It  is  that — you— 
must  marry  her,  Phil!" 
"Must!"' 

He  rose  to  his  feet  suddenly,  a  crimson  flush  surging- 
into  his  face. 

"What  is  it  that  you  mean,  mother?  Pshaw!  I 
s believe  you  half  frightened  me  for  a  moment/' 
I  "Listen,  Phil !"  she  exclaimed  in  that  low,  vibrating' 
•voice  that  always  commands  attention.  "I  would  save 
you  this  knowledge  if  I  could.  I  know  you  so  well,. 
'dear,  that  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  you  would  never 
yield  to  my  entreaty  to  make  Olive  your  wife,  when: 
your  heart  has  not  preceded  the  asking.  You  would 
not  yield  a  point  of  conscience.  But  there  are  reasons 
why — it — it  is  necessary,  Phil." 
\  "I  don't  see  what  reasons  could  make  such  a  thing- 


8O  L1L,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

necessary.  I  am  no  longer  a  boy,  mother.  I  see  that 
something  is  distressing  you  beyond  measure.  You 
must  tell  me  clearly,  fully,  what  it  is." 

"It  is  this,  Phil — your  father's  honor!"  she  cried, 
leaning  toward  him  dramatically.     "My  son,  a  few;*, 
months  ago  there  was  a  threatened  failure  at  the  bank* 
If   it   had   occurred,  your   father   would   have  been 
Iblamed  by  the  courts  and  by  all  the  world." 
I    "My  father!" 

?;  "Wait!  It  would  have— sent  him  to— State's 
jprison!  He  believed  at  the  time,  Phil,  that  he  was 
doing  right.  He  did  not  intend  to — to— embezzle,  or 
whatever  the  dreadful  word  is  that  they  use  for  it, 
[But  you  know,  Phil,  that  the  world  nor  the  courts 
ever  look  to  the  intention.  You  know  that  your  father 
[was  not — a  thief,  and  I  know  it ;  but  that  would  never 
convince  the  world."  : 

She  was  leaning  toward  him  with  her  sightless  eyes 
upon  him,  strained,  haggard,  as  if  she  were  striving 
to  make  him  believe  something  which  she  herself 
doubted,  as  if  she  were  forcing  belief,  and  Philip  saw. 
'He  staggered  to  his  feet  again  in  deathly  silence, 
stared  at  her  for  a  time,  then  when  he  could  command 
ihis  voice,  whispered  hoarsely : 
,  "Well!" 

She  moistened  her  stiff  lips  again  and  went  on, 
/leaning  toward  him  in  an  uncanny  so/t  of  way  and 
jspeaking  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  freeze  his  blood. 

"Arnold  Langford — knew  the  truth.  He  held  the 
proofs.  He — He  holds  them — today.  He  consented 
to  help  your  father — to  save  him  under  one  condition 
v— that  you  marry  Olive.  I — I  thought  you  loved  her, 
jPhil.  I  thought  there  would  be  no  hardship  in  it  for 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  8»' 

you,  my  boy,  and  by — by  my  advice  your  father— con« 
s«ited  to  the  arrangement    Well,  Phil,  Arnold  Lang*{ 
'ford  is  becoming  impatient.     He  demands  that  the. 
promise  be  made  good.     He  wishes  the  marriage  to 
jtake  place  at  once.     It  is  the  price  of  your  father's 
honor,  Phil!"  ^j 

I      She-  was  leaning  toward  him  breathlessly,  and  hia  ( 

j  hoarse  reply  brought  a  wildness  to  her  eyes  that  smotd  • 

[  him  to  the  soul. 

,,,    "There  is  no  honor  that  has  a— price !" 

She  stood  up — a  little  thing  not  larger  than  a  child,, 
but  the  anguish  in  her  eyes  was  awful. 

"Then     his — liberty!'9     she     whispered,     hoarsely. 

/'Phil,  for  the  love  of  a  merciful  Heaven,  you  would 
not  open  to  your  own  father  the  door  of  Sing  Sing, 
;would  you?" 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

/*  ~*        * 
Philip  Sumner  shuddered. 

Even  in  the  horror  that  was  upon  him,  it  suddenly; 
occurred  to  him  what  a  strange  thing  it  was  that  he, 
Philip  Sumner,  should  stand  there  and  listen  whi!0 
his  father  was  called  a  thief! 

He  put  it  in  plain  English  there  in  his  own  mind,  f 
for  he  knew  that  was  no  other  word  that  would  'ex-  ! 
press  the  awful  truth.    His  father  a  thief!    And  he,1 
proud  man  that  he  was,  proud  man  that  he  had  always 
been,  must  needs  stand  there  and  listen  in  silence,  for 
he  knew  they  were  spoken  by  one  who  would  soonefi 
have  cut  outrher  tongue  than  have  uttered  them.    She 


82  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

was  palliating  the  offense,  striving  to  shield  the  mail 
she  loved  with  all  the  strength  of  her  true,  loyal  soul, 
but  Philip  understood,  and— she  knew  he  did. 

If 'she  herself  had  committed  the  offense,  she  could 
not  have  looked  more  the  guilty,  shrinking  thing  tliait 
she  did,  standing  there  with  bowed  head  and  white*, 
trembling  lips ;  and  after  a  moment  of  stunned  silerice, 
Pliilip  went  up  to  her  and  took  her  almost  fiercely  in 
his  strong  arms. 

"Are  you  sure  that  this  is  all  true  ?"  he  asked, 
heavily.  "Are  you  sure  that  there  is  no  mistake?" 

"There  is  none,  Phil.  I  had  corroboration  from  his 
own  lips." 

"And  you  love  him  as  you  did  before?" 

"I  love  him  as  women  should  only  love  their  God  !'* 
she  answered  in  a  voice  that  was  choked  with  anguish* 
"I  sometimes  think  it  is  the  punishment  He  has  sent 
for  a  usurped  worship.  Oh,  Phil,  it  is  your  mother's- 
life  as  well  as  your  father's  liberty  that  I  am  asking  t 
My  son — my  son — " 

"Hush!"  he  whispered,  silencing  her  lips  with  his 
own.  "You  must  give  me  "time  to  think  of  all  this. 
It '  is  so— new — so  unexpected,  that  it  has — stunned 
me. '  You  must  give  me  a  little  time,  but— my  motheir 
knows  that  she  can — trust  me  I"  / 

There  was  an  emphasis  upon  the  last  word  that  cut 
her  to  the  soul.  She  shrunk  back  as  if  from  a  blow, 
but  he  was  too  much  bewildered  to  see.  He  kissed 
her  gently  while  he  whispered : 

"I  am  going  now  where  I  can  be  alone  for  a  little 
while.  Don't  let  me  be  disturbed.  Don't  fret,  little 
mother.  Your  son's  shoulders  are  broad  enough  to 
beat  your  burden  F* 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  83 

lie  took  his  arm  from  about  her  and  left  her,  mount- 
ing the  ctairs  slowly  and  seeking  his  own  room.  When 
he  had  gained  it,  he  locked  the  door,  then  stood  .still, 
striving  to  think  of  the  situation. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  mentally  dumb  for  a 
j  time,  incapable  of  thought,  and  then  a  word  went 
through  his  brain  as  if  fired  from  a  cannon. 


His  father  a  thief! 

The  very  idea  seemed  ridiculous,  and  then: 

"She  —  she  said  it,"  he  murnv.r  ,»d  aloud,  wearily, 
"she  who  would  give  her  very  so.,  to  save  him  from 
harm.  He  has  told  her  all,  he-~c-r,  coward!  The  in- 
famous coward!  Why  was  it  iccjssary  that  he  should 
Jburden  her  poor  life  with  that?  Why  could  he  not 
have  come  to  me?  Because  he  knew  that  I  should 
have  demanded  to  know  the  truth.  Because,  while 
he  had  the  nerve  to  become  a  thief,  he  was  too  great  a 
coward  to  hear  it  from  the  lips  of  his  son.  God!  /, 
the  son  of  a  thief!  I—" 

He  interrupted  himself  with  a  hoarse,  bitter  laugh,  a 

laugh  that  startled  even  himself,  and  he  pulled  himself 

up  shortly,  and  crossing  to  the  window,  threw  himself 

into  a  chair  before  it.     There  was  a  mocking  smile 

).  still  lingering  upon  his  lips  as  he  continued  his  self- 

i  communion. 
4  'I  despised  —  her  because  she  danced  for  a  living, 
and  now  —  my  father  —  a  thief  !    Verily,  the  punishment 
for  my  pride  has  not  been  retarded.     God  !     What  a 
•world  it  is!    I  have  been  a  Don  Quixote  all  my  life, 
fighting  wind-mills.     I  have  tried  to  see  truth  and 
purity  in  all  I  have  met,  but  how  can  purity  spring1 
;!from  putrefaction?     If  I  were  like  the  rest  pf  .the 


84  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 


,  I  might  go  on  and  be  happy  in  the  same  way. 
would  call  me  fool,  in  that  I  object  to  eating 
bread  bought  with  stolen  money.  They  would  call  me 
fool,  in  that  I  hesitate  to  save  myself  and  my  fortune 
by  making  a  beautiful  woman  my  wife.  They  would 
call  me  fool,  in  that  I  resolved  to  avoid  temptation  in 
remaining  away  from  the  girl  with  whom  I  have  fallen 
so  madly  in  love?  because  she  happens  to  be  a  premiere 
dans  e  use.  Well,  and  are  they  all  wrong  and  I  the  only 
one  who  can  be  right  ?  The  world  would  tell  me,  save 
your  fortune,  by  all  means.  Marry  this  girl  of  wealth 
and  beauty,  and  then  —  if  the  premiere  danscuse  still 
attracts  you,  is  there  any  reason  why  you  should  avoid 
her  society  any  more  than  the  rest  of  mankind  ?  Pouf  ! 
Are  you  to  constitute  yourself  the  savior  of  the  world? 
You,  the  son  of  a  thief? 

"After  all,  what  better  is  Arnold  Langford  than 
Halford  Sumner?  Arnold  Langford  conceals  the 
theft  and  sells  his  daughter  to  the  thief's  son.  What 
reason  has  he  for  that  ?  Great  God  !  I  must  be  mad 
indeed  when  I  ask  the  reasons  for  the  facts  of  a  thief's 
accomplice.  Well,  what  answer  is  there  that  I  can 
make  to  my  mother?  Only  this  :  I,  the  son  of  a  thief, 
will  rnarry  the  daughter  of  his  acocmplice,  and  so 
save  the  world  the  knowledge  of  the  knavery  of  this 
precious  pair.  There  is  nothing  else  that  can  be  asked 
of  me,  I  suppose?  I  can  not  be  compelled  to  love 
.her  !  Ha  !  ha  !  I  wonder  if  she  knows  the  terms  of 
this  compact?  Well,  it  has  not  taken  me  long  to  de- 
termine upon  my  future  course.  What  a  change  a 
few  hours  can  make  in  a  man's  life!  This  morning; 
'•When  I  received  a  note  from  Lillian  Esmonde  —  Lit 
the  dancing  girl  —  I  determined  that  I  would  not  accegti 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  8g 

her  invitation  to  a  tete-a-tete  dinner,  an  invitation?  is- 
sued through  sheer  bravado,  but  now — now — " 

TT«  threw  up  his  head  and  laughed  again,  a  laugh 
that  was  horrible.  Then  he  range  his  bell  violently.  \ 

"Ferdenande/'  he  said  hastily  to  his  valet,  "ring  for 
i  a  messenger.  I  want  to  send  a  note  at  once.  Then  get 
any  evening  clothes."" 

.     He  went  to  his  escritoire  as  he  spoke,  and  hastily; 
penned  the  lines : 

"My  DEAR  Miss  ESMONDS, — Pardon  a  delayed  an-   • 
swer  to  your  charming  invitation.     I  will  explain  the 
reason  for  it  when  I  see  you  at  the  hour  you  named—* 
seven.  Ever  sincerely, 

PHILIP  SUMNER." 

He  dispatched  the  note,  then,  with  the  assistance  of 
his  valet,  got  into  his  evening  clothes.  If  Ferdenande 
observed  the  singular  expression  upon  the  handsome 
features,  he  made  no  comment;  but  the  grimly  set 
mouth  did  not  exactly  correspond  with  Philip's  care 
of  his  toilet,  concerning  which  he  had  never  been  so 
particular. 

When  it  was  completed,  he  descended  the  stairs  and 
again  entered  the  presence  of  his  mother. 

She  was  still  sitting  beside  the  window,  white- 
dipped,  anguished ;  but  his  own  pain,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  blinded  him  to  hers.  For  he  was  suffering 
as  only  men  of  his  nature  can  suffer. 

She  lifted  her  head  eagerly  as  he  came  into  the 
room,  then  rose  unsteadily  and  put  out  her  hands  with- 
out speaking.    He  went  up  to  her  and  again  took 
in  his  arrm. 

".Well,  Phil?"  she  exclaimed,  breathlessly,  not 


r86  *  Lit,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

to  fbrce  her  voice  above  a  whisper.  "What  — is  it?** 
1  "I  am  ready  to  make  the  sacrifice  for  your  sake,, 
little  mother,"  he  answered,  endeavoring  to  speak 
lightly,  but  only  succeeding  in  making  his  voice  sound 
reckless.  "Don't  let  it  worry  you  any  more.  I  was  a. 
fool  to  have  hesitated  at  all,  but  it  was  only  for  a  mo- 
ment. After  all,  Olive  is  a  beautiful  woman,  and  has; 
been  brought  up  in  that  society  which  has  taught  her 
not  to  exact  too  much  of  a  husband.  Kiss  me,  little 
one." 

She  lifted  her  mouth  obediently,  but  the  quiver  oj 
the  lips  1m/ 1  him. 

"Don't  grieve,  dearest,"  he  said,  tenderly,  drawmgj 
iher  to  him  caressingly.  "After  all,  I  dare  say  we  shall 
be  as,  happy  together  as  the  general  run  of  married 
people,  Olive  and  I.  It  is  only  that  it  has  rather 
knocked  me  out,  from  being  a  sudden  blow  from  a 
most  unexpected  quarter.  I  am  going  out  to  dinner 
now.  To-morrow  I  shall  be  all  right." 

"I  am  glad  you  are  going  out,  Phil." 

He  wondered  if  she  would  be  glad  if  she  knewr 
•where  he  was  going;  but  he  only  smoothed  her  hair 
tenderly  for  a  moment,  then  left  her. 

It  was  five  minutes  before  the  appointed  hour  that 
he  pushed  the  button  of  the  front  door  leading  to 
Lil's  flat.  He  went  up  in  the  elevator  and  rang  again. 
Lil's  trim  little  maid  answered  the  summons  and 
showed  him  at  once  into  her  mistress's  reception-  , 
room. 

Lil  was  standing  there  in  the  center  of  the  floor,  • 
gowned  in  a  pale-blue  chiffon.  It  was  decollete,  expos- 
ing her  beautiful  throat,  bare  of  jewels.    There  was  a 
smile  upon  her  lips  more  darling  than  diamonds.    She 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  8/ 

put  out  her  hand,  and  as  Philip  Sumner  took  it  he 
lifted  it  to  his  lips. 

"Miss  Vinita  compared  my  case  to  that  of  the  moth 
$nd  the  candle/'  he  said,  with  his  admiring  eyes  ypon 
hers.  "I  tried  to  prove  even  to  myself  that  it  was  not 
true,  but  the  attraction  was  too  strong.  I  tried  to 
remain  away,  and  so  left  your  not^  unanswered ;  but  I 
could  not.  You  see  I  am  here.  You  know  your  power 
fully,  and  I  have  given  myself  up  to  it,  heart  and  spul." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Lil  looked  at  Philip  Sumner  in  a  little  surprise. 
She  observed  the  expression  of  excitement  in  his  eyes, 
the  flush  upon  his  cheeks,  the  recklessness  of  his  man- 
jier,  but  did  not  translate  it  aright.  She  smiled  up  at 
him  as  she  withdrew  her  hand,  exclaiming,  archly : 

"Then  you  have  entirely  recovered  from  your  shock. 
You  do  not  despise  me  because  of  the  lie  I  lived  for 
a  month  at  home  ?  You  do  not  hate  me  as  you  s^id  ?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  curiously,  and  a  bitter 
half-sneering  smile  curved  his  lips. 

"Why  should  I  ?"  he  asked,  quietly.  "Are  you  dif- 
ferent from  the  rest  of  the  world?  I  made  a  confes- 
sion to  myself  this  afternoon.  It  was  this  :  'You  have 
teen  a  Don  Quixote  all  your  life,  fighting  wind-mills. 
You  have  been  a  fool  as  mad  as  he!*  And  so  I  have 
dropped  the  wind-mill  racket,  Lil,  and  have  joined  the 
ranks  of  pleasure-seekers.  The  greatest  pleasure  that 
life  promises  is  in  your  society,  and  so  I  seek  it." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.    There  was  something 


'"88  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL* 

in  his  tone  and  manner  that  distressed  her,  but  sh< 
could  not  exactly  analyze  it. 
*  She  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and  looked  up  at 
film  with  the  dazzling  smile  upon  her  lips  and  in  her 
eyes  intensified.  And  then  the  servant  announced 
idinner. 

(  They  were  alone.  The  dining-room  was  not  bril-i 
liantly  lighted,  but  only  from  the  candles  that  shone 
Softly  under  colored  shades.  The  servant  was  not 
present  save  as  summoned,  and  the  table  was  not  large^ 
iThere  was  a  vase  of  lotus  blooms  in  the  center  of  thd 
(table  that  gave  out  a  seductive  perfume  that  seemeq 
|o  tie  itself  bewilderingly  into  the  brain  and  bubble 
through  the  blood  like  an  intoxicant.  The  very  dim- 
ness of  the  light  was  seductive. 

/  "I  can  imagine  nothing  more  heavenly  than  to  si| 
like  this  through  life,"  he  said,  recklessly,  leaning 
toward  her  as  if  to  drink  in  the  strange  beauty  of  her 
iface.  "I  wonder  if  you  are  as  much  a  philosopher 
as  I  have  become?  For  the  rich  man  life  was  made 
ifor  pleasure,  and  he  who  tries  to  do  anything  but  en* 
jjoy  himself  is  a  fool.  Do  you  not  think  so,  Lil?" 
^  She  did  not  reply  directly  to  his  question,  but  an- 
swered with  another. 

i  "Why  do  you  call  me  Lil?  I  thought  you  hated  it." 
"It  is  inseparable  from  your  new  li'fe.  It  does  not 
fit  the  character.  My  lily  was  a  sedate  little  flower 
[with  a  quiet  dignity  that  was  as  lovely  as  its  own  pure 
{whiteness.  My  Lil  is  more  like  that  lotus  bloom — • 
Seductive,  bewildering,  intoxicating.  I  loved  the  lily; 
I  am  entranced  by  the  lotus  bloom.  The  effect  is  a 
delicious  harmony  of  thought  and  feeling  which  pro- 
duces a  sensation  for  which  even  death  has  no  terror* 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  ftjj 

Ah,  Lil,  I  loved  the  dainty,  debonair  little  school- 
teacher, but  I  worship  the  biasing,  glittering",  dazzling 
dancing-girl  as  the  sun-worshippers  were  wont  to 
adore  their  god." 

He  laid  his  arm  upon  the  table,  palm  upward,  invit- 
ingly, entreatingly.  She  hesitated  a  moment  She 
scarcely  knew  what  to  do.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
Kirk  Maitland  had  lied  to  h 

She  was  more  than  half  convinced  that  he  had. 

e  put  out  her  dainty  cool  palm  and  allowed  it  to 
fall  upon  his,  soft  as  a  snow-flake.  She  almost  started 
as  the  heat  of  his  hand  met  hers.  It  was  like  a  fiery 
furnace,  scorching  with  red  heat.  But  liis  fingers 
closed  over  hers  before  they  could  be  withdrawn. 

"God!"   he   exclaimed,  .g  his   chair 

nearer  to  her,  "do  you  think  I  will  ever  let  you  escape, 
now  that  I  hold  you?  Lil!  Lil!  give  yourself  to  me, 
darling !  Let  me  love  you  as  I  can.  Do  you  remember 
the  night  of  the  country  dance  ?  It  seemed  impossible 
then  that  I  could  ever  aspire  to  such  perfection  as  you, 
yet  I  have  grown  bold  with  desire — rnad,  perhaps. 
Lil,  love  me!" 

She  dkl  not  reply.  It  seemed,  somehow,  that  the 
fteat  of  his  passion  had  rather  dazzled  her.  She  stared 
at  him  for  a  moment  in  absolute  silence,  scarcely  dar- 
ing to  listen  to  the  voice  of  her  own  heart — and  then, 
she  scarcely  knew  how  it  happened — but  .she  found 
herself  in  his  arms,  with  her  lips  answering  his  wild 

••25. 

"Darling!"  he  whispered,  "darling,  let  me  hear  it 
once !  Tell  me  that  you  love  me!  Lil,  my  own,  speak 
tome!" 

And  then,  for  the  first  time  in  all  her  life,  her  lips 


"^O  LIL,   ,T#E    DANCING-GIRL 

spoke  those  words  that  had  never  left  them  save  in 

mockery : 

.     "I  love  you,  Philip  I" 

His  arms  closed  about  her  more  passionately.  ,He 
had  thought  to  be  happy  when  he  had  heard  them 
spoken,  and  yet  they  seemed  to  ignite  in  his  soul  the! 
fires  of  hell.  He  dared  not  let  her  see  his  face,  and  so; 
concealed  it  in  her  bosom.  It  was  the  first  dishonor-; 
able  act  of  his  whole  life,  and  it  stung  him  through1 
with  the  flame  from  perdition. 

But  it  did  not  last  long.  He  calmed  his  conscience 
iwith  a  reckless  laugh  and  flung  up  his  head.  The 
crimson  flame  was  showing  through  his  cheeks,  and 
lighted  his  eyes  with  a  glow  that  blazed. 

"I  am  the  happiest  man  in  the  world !"  he  exclaimed, 
in  uncontrollable  excitement.  "To  our  love,  Lil— to 
our  beautiful  love!" 

\  He  lifted  his  champagne-glass  above  his  head  and 
looked  at  her,  with  the  reeling,  intoxicated  expression 
growing  with  each  moment.  She  lifted  hers,  and  they 
clinked  glasses  merrily.  His  mood  had  seemed  to 
impart  itself  to  her.  She  had  ceased  to  think  of  Kirk 
fMaitland  and  the  words  that  he  had  spoken.  She 
loved  Philip  Sttaner.  She  was  taking  the  joy  from 
the  passing  hour  without  thought  of  the  future.  But 
she  trusted  him. 

They  paused  in  their  rapturous  conversation  only 
While  the  servant  was  in  the  room  to  change  a  course, 
and  it  was  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  both  arose  from 
the  table  at  last. 

As  they  entered  the  reception-room,  Lil  flung  her- 
self into  a  great  chair,  lifting  her  beautiful  dimpled 
arms  above  her  head.  When  they  f eH  they  were  about 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  QF 

is  neck  as  he  knelt  beside  her.     She  drew  his  head 

osely  to  her  and  kissed  him  upon  the  eyes. 

'Ah,  love/'  he  murmured,  "what  a  life  it  will  be! 
ere  will  be  the  need  of  heaven?  Champagne,  and 
owers,  and  love!  What  combination  could  a  poet 
jggest  that  could  fill  a  life  more  full  of  royal  living 
lan  that?" 

"And  you  will  always  love  me,  Philip?'* 

There  was  something  so  wistful  in  the  tone  thai:  it 
Duched  him. 

"First  and  best  always,  my  darling!''  he  answered, 
lore  earnestly  than  he  had  yet  spoken.  "First  and 
est  always.  You  must  never  doubt  that,  Lil,  what- 
•cr  comes." 

She  smiled  up  at  him  happily.  The  step  of  the 
*rvant  in  the  hall  was  heard  and  he  arose.  Not, 
owever,  before  the  girl  had  seen  their  positions,  and 

slow  smile  curved  the  domestic's  lips.  She  set  her 
ay  upon  the  table,  a  tray  containing  champagne  and 

asses,  and  left  the  room. 

Lil  rose,  but  before  :,he  could  reach  the  table,  Philip 
umners  arms  were  about  her.  She  yielded  to  him 
oyously,  and  neither  heard  another  step  in  the  hall> 
quiet,  firm  step  of  the  dancing-master.  He  was 
oming  in  with  some  piece  of  news  which  he  thought 

ould  interest  Lil,  and  had  even  lifted  a  corner  of 
ie  portiere,  when  the  tableau  met  his  eye, 

He  did  not  speak,  but  dropped  the  portiere  and  went 
way  quietly.  The  anguish  in  his  heart  was  awful. 

"It  is  goodbye  to  hope,"  he  murmured.    "My  Lily, 

too  pure  for  this  to  mean  anything  but  an  honorable 
larriage,  a  marriage  that  will  separate  us  eternally. 
Jod  knows  I  would  not  stand  between  her  and  happi- 


92  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

ness.    I  never  expected  that  she  could  love  me,  but  I 
hoped— I  hoped— 

What  he  had  hoped  seemed  to  be  vague  enough,  for 
he  never  completed  his  sentence.  He  only  sat  down 
upon  the  side  of  a  chair,  and,  covering  his  face, 
groaned. 

Meanwhile,  Lil  and  Philip  were  still  unconscious  of 
the  whole  world  about  them.  They  were  living  in  the 
first  hours  of  love,  the  one  with  a  fever  of  remorse 
turning  his  soul,  the  other  with  a  sentiment  as  pure 
end  holy  as  that  which  marks  the  affection  of  $,  child 
for  its  mother.  For  while  Lil  had  determined  at  one 
time  that  she  would  make  Philip  Sumner  suffer  for 
what  she  thought  to  be  a  flirtation  at  her  expense,  she 
believed  now  as  truly  in  the  sanctity  of  his  love  as  she 
did  in  that  of  her  Creator.  And  she  was  yielding  her- 
self as  completely  to  the  joy  of  her  love  as  the  enthusi- 
ast does  to  the  first  inspiration  of  religion. 

And  then,  while  the  thirst  of  heart  and  soul  was 
being  assuaged  with  kisses,  the  bell  rang.  Neither 
C)f  them  heard  it,  but  a  discreet  cough  from  the  domes- 
tic who  had  entered  before  warned  them. 

She  lifted  the  portiere  and  announced: 
!     "Mr.  Maitland!" 

And  Lil  was  too  happy  to  feel  annoyed.  She  sud- 
denly recalled  the  words  that  he  had  spoken  concerning1 
Olive  Langford,  and  a  smile  of  supreme  content 
crossed  her  mouth  at  the  remembrance. 

"When  did  you  come  down  from  the  country?" 
asked  Lil,  when  she  had  shaken  hands  with  him. 

"Only  to-day.  Did  you  not  know  that  you  would 
be  the  first  upon  whom  I  should  call  ?" 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

He  looked  at  her  reproachfully,  and  in  some 
Mice.    Philip  exclaimed: 

"Then  you  knew  Miss  Esmonde  before?"  , 

"\Vhy,  certainly.  Lil  and  Tare  old  friends,  but  13 
certainly  did  not  expect  to  see  you  here,  old  man! 
She  and  I  had  many  a  laugh  over  how  completely  you 
were  duped  up  there  in  the  country.  By  the  way,  Miss 
Langforcl  came  down  this  morning.  She  is  to  remaini 
a  week,  1  believe.  Of  course  you  will  see  her?" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

It  is  doubtful  if  there  was  ever  a  more  miserable 
man  than  Philip  Sumner  was  when  he  left  the  resi- 
dence of  the  dancing-girl  that  evening,  and  yet  with 
that  reckless  defiance  of  fate  and  conscience  that  i 
so  newly  born  within-him,  he  endeavored  to  still  the 
voice  of  disgust  and  self-contempt.  \ 

He  did  not  return  home,  but  went  to  the  club,  a^icj 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  some  of  his  friends  and 
associates  saw  him  under  the  influence  of  drink.  Ha 
played  poker  rather  wildly,  that  also  being  a  new  ex-  , 
perience,  and  with  the  luck  of  a  new  player,  rose  from 
the  table  with  an  unsteady  smile  upon  his  lips,  and  a, 
thousand  dollars  in  his  hands  that  had  not  been  there 
when  he  entered  the  room.  } 

"You  should  invest  it  in  a  souvenir!"  exclaimed 
one  of  the  gamesters,  laughing,  as  he  looked  into  ihe 
1li) -bed  and  rather  swollen  face. 

"I  will!"  he  cried,  a  little  wildly.  "It  shall  purchase 
a  diamond  star  for — my  sweetheart." 


94  LIL,   THE   PANCING-GIRL 

t 

'  "A  star  in  her  own  right?"  laughed  the  first  speaker 
"I  heard  last  night  that  you  were  rather  hard  hit  vv;t£ 
one  of  the  Thespian  firmament.  Seductive  Hide  witch ! 
But  I  say,  Sumner,  take  care!  She  is  fooling  thee! 
That  dainty,  airy  little  creature  is  more  like  an  eel  than 
anything  you  ever  saw.  You've  got  her  one  minute, 
or?  rather,  think  you  have,  and  the  next  she  has  slipped 
through  your  fingers,  and  clean  escaped  you.  I  shall 
look  out  for  the  souvenir  the  next  time  I  dine  with  her: 
tcte-a-tete." 

A  dark  cloud  gathered  on  Sumner's  brow.  One  mo- 
ment it  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  throttle  the  smil- 
ing scoundrel  that  sat  there  gazing  up  at  him  so  non- 
chalantly, and  then  he  turned  away  with  an  upward 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  not  able  to  find  voice  for  a 
(reply. 

He  hated  himself  because  he  loved  her,  this  woman 
whose  name  was  handled  so  lightly  by  every  roue  in 
town,  this  woman  who  indulged  in  tete-a-tete  dinners 
.with  every  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  that  happened  to 
come  along.  He  had  felt  himself  a  scoundrel  early  in 
the  evening  that  he  had  made  love  to  a  woman  whom 
he  had  no  intention  of  asking  to  be  his  wife,  yet  now 
an  expression  of  sneering  scorn  disturbed  his  features 
in  that  his  supersensitive  conscience  had  smote  him. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  wine  he  had  drunk  that  caused 
it,  but  whatever  may  have  been  the  reason,  he  fell  into 
a  deep  slumber  when  he  had  retired  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  did  not  awaken  until  his  valet  had  aroused 
him.  His  head  ached.  There  was  a  sense  of  sullen 
oppression  upon  him.  He  lay  there  for  some  time 
staring  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  recalling  the  events  of 


LIL,   THE  DANCING-GIRL  <)£ 

the  evening  before.    It  was  certainly  not  calculated  to 
lighten  the  burden  in  his  brain. 

He  remembered  vividly  the  speech  of  his  fellow, 
clubman  concerning  Lil,  and  it  sent  a  stinging  shame 
into  his  cheeks.  Then  he  recalled  the  words  of  his 
mother  in  this  wise : 

"Arnold  Langford  is  growing  impatient  for  the  con- 
summation of  the  promise  made  him." 

A  low,  sneering  laugh  left  the  rather  pale  lips,  and 
Phil  sprung  from  his  bed.  The  cold  plunge  did  hint 
good,  but  his  breakfast  was  still  untasted  when  he  left 
the  house  and  went  down-town  to  his  office.  There 
seemed  nothing  to  be  done  there,  and  he  sat  thinking 
for  some  time,  the  old  recklessness  growing  upon  him 
again. 

At  three  o'clock  he  left  the  office,  drove  to  a  florist's 
and  sent  Lil  a  magnificent  box  of  fiowers,  with  a  line 
upon  one  of  his  visiting-cards: 

"A  setting  for  the  jewel  of  love.'5 

Then  he  re-entered  the  coupe  again,  after  giving  the 
coachman  Olive  Langford's  address. 

A  grim  smile  was  upon  his  face  as  he  took  his  seat. 

"Verily,"  he  said  between  his  set  teeth,  "it  is  a  fitting 
beginning  for  the  life  that  I  have  planned  in  my  efforts 
to  be  as  great  a  scoundrel  as  my  fellows.  I  go  from 
a  message  to  my  sweetheart  to  the  home  of  my  future 
wife." 

He  drowned  the  sting  of  conscience  in  five  little 
words  that  had  burned  themselves  into  his  brain : 

"The  son  of  a  thief !" 

Olive  entered  the  room  where  he  waited,  ten  min« 
utes  after  his  card  had  been  sent  her. 

"I  thought  you  would  come!"  she  exclaimed,,  cordi* 


96  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL, 

ally,  extending  her  hand  to  him.     "Have  you  seen 
Kirk  Maitland?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  coloring  as  he  remembered 
where.  "He  told  me  you  were  here,  and  I  came  the 
first  moment  afterward  that  decency  would  allow. 
[Why  did  not  you  send  me  a  note  ?" 

"He  said  he  would  tell  you.  It  is  father's  birthday; 
next  week,  and  I  came  down  to  purchase  some  pres- 
ents." 

The  reference  to  her  father  caused  Philip  to  wince,, 
but  he  continued  to  smile. 

"Then  your  visit  is  not  for  long?" 

"No ;  only  a  few  days," 

"I  hope  you  will  get  time  to  run  in  to  see  mother  be-< 
fore  your  return.  She  is  very  fond  of  you." 

"I  shall  certainly  take  the  time.  I,  too,  am  fond  of 
her,  and  feel  flattered  that  she  likes  me." 

"It  is  more  than  that,  Olive.  The  little  mother  had 
a  daughter  of  her  own  once,  a  poor  afflicted  thing,  but 
perhaps  loved  all  the  better  because  o£  that.  The  idol 
died,  and  since  then  the  mother-heart  has  longed  fon 
another  daughter.  She  hopes  you  will  be  that  one, 
Olive." 

Miss  Langford  looked  at  him  in  genuine  surprise. 
She  had  hoped  for  many  months  to  hear  a  declaration 
from  his  lips,  but  certainly  now  was  not  the  time  that 
she  had  expected  it.  And  then,  there  was  no  passion 
in  his  utterance,  no  preamble  of  love,  only  this  plain 
matter-of-fact  statement  almost  immediately  following 
'his  entrance  into  the  room. 

The  lack  of  affectation  in  her  surprise  interested 
[Philip. 

"I  am -afraid  I  have  taken  an  undue  advantage  of 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  97 

ou,"  he  went  on,  quite  calmly,  "in,  so  to  speak,  spri: 
ig  this  upon  you  in  this  unexpected  way;  but  you 
now  that  in  spite  of  his  prerogative,  it  is  an  cmbar- 
assing  thing  for  a  man  to  ask  a  woman  to  be  his  wife, 
t  looks  so  infernally  conceited  for  a  fellow  to  think 
tiat  a  beautiful  girl  like  you  could  think  enough  of  him 
or  that.  I  shall  know  that  it  is  quite  what  I  deserve 
E  you  refuse  unconditionally,  but— I  wish  you  would 
,ot  Will  you  be  my  wife,  Olive?" 

She  did  not  reply.  Every  particle  of  color  had  van- 
shed  from  her  cheek?.  She  sat  down  in  a  chair  and 
Doked  up  at  him  vaguely,  as  if  his  words  were  little 
ess  than  an  enigma  to  her.  And  he  stood  there  look- 
ng  down  at  her  and  chewing  the  ends  of  his  mustache 
avagely,  the  troubled  look  deepening  in  his  eyes.  He 
lad  tried  with  all  his  might  to  tnfuse  his  voice  with 
tomething  like  affection,  but  to  save  his  soul  he  could 
lot  succeed  in  making  it  anything  but  deathly  cold. 

He  forced  himself  to  go  up  to  her  after  an  em' 
rassed  silence,  and  lean  over  the  back  of  her  chair. 

"Won't  you  at  least  speak  to  me,  Olive?"  he  asked. 

She  seemed  for  a  little  time  to  be  fighting  down  her, 
^motion,  then  she  cried  out  passionately : 

"What  is  it  that  you  are  offering  me— your  love  or, 
simply  your  name?" 

He  straightened  himself  and  stared  over  her  head 
fof  a  moment  out  of  the  window.  To  save  his  life  he 
could  not  be  sufficiently  false  to  himself  and  his  man- 
hood to  tell  her  the  lie  that  he  knew  very  well  was  de- 
manded of  him,  and  after  a  time  he  spoke  hoarsely : 

'I  must  tell  you  the  truth.  I  can  not  lie  to  the 
woman  whom  I  am  asking  to  share  all  my  future  life. 
It  is  not  the  love  which  I  hope  will  come  with 


OS  LIL.    THE    DANCING-CTRL 

not  the  love  which  I  wish  to  God  it  were  now.  If  you 
refuse,  because  of  my  brutal  frankness,  I  shall  deserve' 
it,  and  shall  have  no  censure  for  you,  but  I  beg  that 
you  will  not.  I  entreat  that  you  will  accept  what  f 
have  to  give  now,  being  sure  that  I  shall  try  to  deserve 
the  trust  you  place  in  me." 

It  is  just  possible  that  she  hated  him  then,  as  it  had 
never  seemed  possible  to  her  that  she  could  hate  him. 
The  expression  of  her  gray  eyes  was  not  good  to  see. 
There  was  something  absolutely  greenish  and  cat-like 
in  them,  but  Philip  was  not  looking  at  her.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  could  not  do  so  with  his  conscience  sa 
in  revolt  against  compulsion. 

Neither  of  them  knew  how  long  that  stony  silence 
was  continued,  but  Olive  Langford  arose  at  last  stifty. 

"I  am  going  to  surprise  you,"  she  said,  heavily,  "by 
accepting  the  offer  that  you  have  made  me.  I  confess 
that  from  your  attentions  in  the  past,  it  is  not  what; 
I  expected,  but —  Well,  let  that  go.  Perhaps  it  is  pure 
selfishness  that  causes  me  to  do  it.  It  is  not  necessary; 
to  analyze  emotions  at  present.  I  will  be  your  wife, 
Philip."  { 

He  started  toward  her  in  a  perfunctory  sort  of  way, 
as  if  to  put  his  arms  about  her  and  kiss  her,  but  she 
stepped  back  and  flung  out  her  hand  passionately. 

"No,  not  that — net  that!"  she  cried.  "Neither  now 
nor  at  any  future  time  until  you  tell  me  that  the  love 
your  wife  has  a  right  to  demand  is  mine.  'You  will 
understand  that  and  respect  it?" 

"I  will  understand  it  and  respect  it." 

"Thank  you.    Will  you  leave  me  now  ?" 

"When  may  I  come  again?" 

"This  evening,  if  you  wish.    It  may  be  pleasanter  if 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL*  $£ 

you  bring  your  mother  with  you,  provided  of  course 
she  is  not  engaged  elsewhere/1 

"I  will  bring  her." 

lie  left  the  room  humbled,  admiring  her  more  thart 
he  had  ever  done  before  in  his  life;  but  perhaps  he 
i  .would  not  have  done  so  could  he  have  seen  the  ex- 
pression of  her  countenance  when  the  door  had  closed 
upon  him. 

Her  fingers  were  clinched  in  the  palm  of  her  hand, 
and  her  eyes  blazed  with  fury. 

"It  is  that  little  school-teacher  that  has  done  this, 
curse  her !"  she  exclaimed,  hoarsely.  "I  understand  it 
all.  He  could  not  make  her  his  wife.  He  offers  me 
that  exalted  position,  while  he  gives  his  love  to  her. 
iWell,  we  shall  see.  I  will  discover  the  secret  of  all 
this,  and  then — and  then — they  both  shall  suffer.  Trust 
Olive  Langford  for  that !" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

,  Lil  was  dresse'd  again  for  one  of  those  evenings  at 
home  for  which  she  had  become  famous  among  women 
of  her  own  set  and  clubmen  who  frequent  the  homes  of 
actresses.  When  she  was  playing,  or,  rather,  dancing 
in  the  theater,  she  held  them  from  twelve  o'clock  until 
the  people  got  ready  to  go  home,  at  least  three  times 
a  week,  and  when  she  was  not  engaged  in  the  early 
part  of  the  evening,  her  house  was  always  open.  It 
cost  her  no  end  of  money,  but  then,  Lil  was  the  rage, 
and  she  made  no  end  of  money. 
After  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  the  dancing-1 


IOC  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

room,  or  practice-room,  was  always  converted  into 
large  salon,  in  which  the  guests  were  entertained,  a 
the  other  rooms  were  too  small  to  accommodate  thos 
who  came  to  share  her  hospitality. 

There  was  an  added  brightness  in  her  eyes  and  ; 
flush  upon  her  cheeks  that  had  not  been  there  of  lat< 
.when  she  entered  the  room  where  Chetwynd  awaitec 
her.  She  wore  a  'blue  crepe  embroidered  in  silver- 
one  of  the  most  elaborate  gowns  in  her  possession—- 
and  upon  the  left  breast,  just  above  the  heart  was  fas- 
tened a  great  diamond  dagger  surmounted  by  a  mag- 
nificent pearl.  It  was  the  only  jewels  she  wore,  and  as 
she  entered  the  room  and  it  met^Chetwynd's  eye,  $ 
sort  of  groan  was  strangled  upon  his  white  lips. 

"Where  did  you  get  it,  Lil  ?"  he  asked,  motioning  to 
the  dagger,  but  not  touching  it,  though  she  stood  di* 
rectly  before  him. 

She  smiled  up  at  him  saucily. 

"Guess !"  she  exclaimed. 

"It  is  of  fabulous  value/'  he  said,  evasively.  "Thai 
pearl  in  the  end  alone  is  worth  what  would  be  a  for- 
tune to  some  people.  I  should  say  the  dagger  must 
have  cost  the  donor  full  five  thousand  dollars/' 

"I  rather  think  you  are  right,"  she  replied,  looking 
down  upon  it  admiringly  from  the  corner  of  her  beau- 
tiful eyes.  "It  is  a  new  mash,  diet." 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  a  serious  one  this  time,  little  girl.** 

Even  then  she  did  not  see  the  drawn,  haggard  look 
in  the  eyes,  nor  note  the  whiteness  of  the  face.  All 
\vomen  who  are  in  love  are  unconsciously  selfish. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  the  smile  vanishing,  and  a~lit« 
tie  wistful  expression  drawing  her  lovely  mouth. 

"I  am  very  happy,  old  friend,"  she  said,  slowly,  heC 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  IOI 

yoke  and  expression  not  quite  fitting  her  words.  "I 
find  that  there  is  one  mar  in  the  world  great  enough 
of  soul  to  forget  the  posi?K>n  I. occupy  and  think  only 
01  Nvhat  I  am  in  reality.  I  thought  myself  th^  most 
miserable  of  women  when  I  came  home  from  the 
country;  out  instead  of  that',  I  .did-not  realize  the  hap- 
jpiness  that  was  in  store  for  me.  I  guess  that  was  be- 
cause I  have  never  quite  learned  to  trust  any  man  but 
you.  I  know  now,  however,  that  there  i's  another  good 
one,  and  that  I  have  won  his  love.  .Won't  you  con- 
gratulate me?" 

"With  all  my  heart.  But  will  you  be  offended,  little 
One,  if  I  put  a  question  ?'' 

"Offended  with  you?     Never!" 

"It  may  sound  insulting,  but  you  know  old  Chet 
could  never  mean  that  to  you." 

She  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  touched  his 
cheek  with  her  lips.  It  stung  a  drop  of  color  into 
them,  but  he  did  not  shrink  from  the  touch  that  must 
have  seered  like  a  red  hot  iron. 

He  put  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  held  her 
back  from  him,  looking  earnestly  into  her  eyes. 

"It  is  marriage,  little  one,  is  it  not?" 
i    She  was  about  to  reply,  but  before  the  words  could 
Cleave  her  lips,  the  portiere  was  thrown  aside  and  Na- 
thalia  Vinita  was  announced. 

She  came  forward  with  her  usual  indolent  step,  and 
put  out  her  hand  to  Lil. 

"What  a  lucky  girl  you  are,  my  dear!"  she  said, 
"drawlingly.  "You  are  never  without  some  one  to 
make  love  to  you.  [When  all  «lse  fails,  there  is  Chet- 
,wynd." 

"You  are  very  much  mistaken  if  you  think  Chet 


'102  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

makes  love  to  me,"  laughed  Lillian.  "I  don't  believe 
he  would  know  how.  I'll  bet  he  never  made  love  to  a 
woman  in  his  life;  did  you,  Chet?" 

He  concealed  his  pain,,  and  answered,  lightly: 

"No.""  ' 

"There f  I  knew  it!,  He  knows  no  more  about  love 
than  that 'fellow  Plato  did  when  he  wrote  his  absurd 
theories." 

"I  have  my  doubts  as  to  your  paramount  knowl- 
edge on  the  subject,  also,"  said  Miss  Vinita,  softly, 
lazily  waving  her  ubiquitous  fan.  "For  my  own  part, 
I  think  Plato  far  and  away  more  sensible  than  Ovid; 
and  I  believe  that,  as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  you 
know  about  as  little  of  one  as  the  other.  You  are 
a  glittering  piece  of  frosty  ice,  pretty  Lil !" 

"I  shall  convince  you,  inside  of  thirty  days,  that 
you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about!''  cried 
Lil,  gayly. 

"How?" 

"I  refuse  to  answer;  but  I'll  make  any  bet  with 
you  that  you  like  that  it  is  true." 

Miss  Vinita  looked  interested. 

"Are  you  engaged  ?"  she  inquired  dubiously. 

"I  decline  to  answer  that  also;  but  if  you'll  make 
the  bet,  I'll  give  you  your  own  odds."  ; 

A  number  of  others  entered  the  room  at  that  men 
tnent  and  shook  hands.  j 

"What's  the  matter,  Mag?"  queried  one  of  them, 
"You  look  so — queer?" 

'Well,  I  feel  queer,"  she  answered  in  her  ac- 
customed  drawl.  "It's  a  sort  of  puzzle  that  I  can't 
make  out.  I  have  been  given  the  end  of  a  tangled 
skein  and  told  to  unwind  it  while  my  eyes  are  closed/* 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  IC>3 

I 

*  Ifil  was  laughing  heartily.  She  paused  to  welcome 
Kirk  Maitland,  looking  into  his  eyes  a  trifle  defiant- 
ly, while  she  spoke  some  words  daintily. 

"Tell  us  of  it!"  exclaimed  some  one  to  Miss  Vi- 
nita.  "You  have  aroused  our  curiosity." 

"Have  I  your  permission,  Lil?" 
:    "Pourquoi  pas?"  asked  their  hostess,  with  a  little 
Upward  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"I  think  Lil  was  trying  to  make  me  believe  that 
she  has  fallen  in  love,"  said  Miss  Vinita,  slowly,  as  if 
she  were  carefully  measuring  her  words. 

A  burst  of  laughter  from  the  women  present  greet- 
ed the  assertion. 

"No,  but  wait!"  continued  Miss  Vinita,  impressive- 
ly. "She  offers  to  bet  me,  any  odds  I  name,  that 
$he  will  prove  it  to  me  inside  of  thirty  days." 

"Take  the  bet!"  exclaimed  Kirk  Maitland,  auda- 
ciously. 

"Will  you  pay  if  I  lose?" 

"If  you  let  me  name  the  terms." 

"De  you  agree,  Lil  ?" 

Lil  looked  Kirk  Maitland  straight  in  the  eye.  She 
felt  herself  then  bfyond  his  ability  to  harm.  She  was 
to  be  the  wife  of  Philip  Sumner,  and  she  felt  that 
she  could  defy  all  the  world. 

"Yes,  I  agree!"  she  answered,  unflinchingly. 

He  went  up  to  her  and  stood  there  before  har  in 
presence  of  all  the  peopk  in  the  room.  He  was 
laughing  as  if  it  were  the  veriest  joke  in  which  he 
•was  indulging,  but  there  was  something  in  his  ex- 
pression that  Lil  read  as  a  dare — just  as  h^  intend- 
ed that  she  should. 

"Then  my  terms  are  these/'  he  said,  slowly,  irn» 


IO4  'Llti,   THE    DANCTNG-GIRE 

pressively,  while  yet  the  lightness  ami  Jocularity  ol 
his  manner  remained:  "If,  at  the  end  of  the  pre- 
scribed thirty  days,  you  have  not  convinced  us  of 
the  sincerity  of  your  words  by  the  announcement  of 
a  bethrothal,  you  will  be  my  wife."  i 

There  was  a  gasp  from  every  one  present.  A  silence 
fell  upon  the  group  where  a  burst  of  laughter,  might 
have  been  expected.  Every  one  was  looking  expect- 
antly at  L51.  Once  she  half  shrunk  back  as  if  she 
.were  about  to  decline  the  foolish  terms,  then  some- 
thing in  his  face,  something  of  mockery  which  she 
could  not  bear,  angered  her  beyond  all  reason. 

She  flung  up  her  head  haughtily,  and  forced  a 
laugh  she  was  far  from  feeling.  It  was  not  that  she 
had  any  idea  he  would  ever  win  the  wager — oh,  far 
from  it!  Her  confidence  in  Philip  Sumner  was  ab^ 
solute,  and  as  a  vision  of  his  dear  face  came  before 
her,  she  answered,  calmly: 
i  "I  accept  the  terms/' 

There  was  a  noisy  hand-clapping,  a  great  deal  of 
laughter,  and  others  entering  the  room  at  the  time 
had  to  have  the  bet  explained. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  will  actually  keep; 
your  word?"  asked  Felix,  going  up  to  Lil. 

"If  he  wins,  I  will  keep  it.  But  there  is  no  reverse 
side  to  the  bet.  If  I  win,  what  am  I  to  receive  ?" 

"My  life  insurance  policy,"  answered  Maitland, 
lightly,  and  at  the  same  looking  at  her  with  curious 
intent. 

•  She  turned  away  with  a  slightly  deprecating  wave 
p-f  the  hand,  and  once  again  the  portiere  was  lifted 
I  It  was  Philip  Sumner. 

Lil  went  toward  him.    He  took  her  hand  with  aa 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  IOJ 

ive  tenderness  that  attracted  the  attention  of 
every  one  in  the  rooms.     The  sweet  color  deepened 
in  her  cheeks.     She  turned  to%  present  him  to  some 
of  those  of  her  friends  whom  he  had  not  met  before. 
I  heard  great  merriment  before  I  came,"  he  said, 
n  the  introductions  were  over.    "May  I  not  know 

was  about?" 

i  e  were  making  bets  on  certain  engagements 
v.L-icn  are  to  be  announced  within  thirty  days!''  ex- 
clainvl  Kirk  Maitland,  speaking  rather  loudly,  hi:; 
;\nent  showing  itself  in  a  heightened  color* 
"AnJ,  by  the  way,  that  reminds  me.  I  must  con* 
£ratula*e  you.  I  heard  the  announcement  of  your 
engagement  just  as  I  was  leaving  the  club.  I  hope 
I  am  net  premature,  but  Slater  told  me  that  he  had 
just  seeiv  you,  and  you  told  him  you  were  to  be  mar- 
ried to  Iwiss  Olive  Langford  on  the  twenty-fifth  o£ 
September.  Is  it  true,  old  man?" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Philip  Sumner  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  confront- 
ing a  deadly  enemy,  half  stunned  from  surprise  and 
consternation  at  the  suddeness  of  the  attack. .  He 
cast  about  him  for  something  to  say,  some  way  of 
evading  the  question  that  had  been  so  directly  put. 
'He  glanced  hastily  at  LSI. 

She  had  grown  ghastly  in  her  pallor,  and  yet  there 
\vas  an  unsteady  smile  upon  her  contenance  as  if 
she  were  listening  for  his  denial  of  a  stor>  that  must 
be  absurb.  And  yet  he  knew  that  he  dared  not  deny 


IO6  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRX- 

it.  Already  representatives  of  the  press  were  coming 
to  him  for  comfirmation  of  the  story  of  his  engage- 
ment to  one  of  the  season's  belles  and  one  of  the  great- 
est heiresses  in  the  country.  He  knew  that  it  would-' 
be  a  matter  of  only  a  week  at  best  that  he  could  hopej 
to  keep  the  fact  quiet.  Therefore,  what  was  the  good 
of  a  lie  that  he  knew  would  so  quickly  find  Tiim  out? 

He  could  have  throttled  Maitland  for  his  question, 
and  yet  he  knew  that  he  must  quickly  find  an  answer 
for  it,  and  laughed  shortly  as  he  exclaimed : 

"Slater  is  a  fool !  A  fellow  should  at  least  be  al- 
lowed the  privilege  of  announcing  his  own  engage- 
ment/' 

He  loathed  himself  for  the  evasiou,  hated  h'imself 
for  the  duplicity  that  he  had  practiced,  as  he  had 
never  hated  his  father  for  becoming  the  thief  he 
Relieved  him;  and  yet  he  could  not  retire  from  the 
position  in  which  he  had  placed  himself. 

But  he  had  counted  too  much  upon  Maitiand's 
generosity.  There  was  more  at  stake  for  the  latter 
than  Phil  had  reckoned,  and  with  the  dancing,  glit- 
tering light  deepening  in  his  eyes.  Kirk  Maitland 
exclaimed,  even  more  loudly  than  he  had  before 
spoken : 

"Gome  off!  That  is  no  answer.  You  lovers  are 
such  wary  chaps;  but  you  must  not  expect  to  escape 
us  this  time.  We  are  old  friends,  and  deserve  tg> 
know  before  the  announcement  is  made  to  the  rest 
of  the  world.  Let  us  have  it,  old  man.  Is  it  true, 
or  isn't  it?  A  plain  'yes*  or  'no'  now." 

Philip  did  not  speak.  He  glanced  half  appeal- 
ingly  toward  Lil,  but  she  took  a  step  forward  and 
threw  up  her  head.  She  had  obtained  full  -mastery 


Lit,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  I(>7 

herself.  She  laughed  slightly,  though  the  glitter 
in  her  eye  did  not  exactly  blend  with  the  sound  of 
merriment. 

"Mr.  Maitland  is  quite  correct!"  she  cried,  her 
voice  a  trifle  harder  than  usual.  '"We  whom  you 
have  called  your  friends  have  a  right  to  know  that 
which  concerns  you  so  nearly.  Is  it  true  ?" 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  truth.  It  is  not  often 
that  a  man  tells  it  with  such  a  note  of  shame  in  his 
.voice;  but  when  Philip  Sumner  spoke  a  breath  of 
surprise  went  through  the  room.  He  tried  to  fol- 
low the  example  of  the  others  and  laugh,  but  it  was 
a  sorry  effort.  He  strove  to  infuse  his  voice  with 
lightness,  but  it  was  husky  as  from  a  heavy  cold. 

"I  am  run  to  earth!'1  he  cried,  in  a  terrible  at- 
tempt at  playfulness.  "Won't  any  one  come  to  my 
rescue?  Is  all  my  fun  to  be  eternally  spoiled  be- 
cause the  little  matter  of  matrimony  is  hanging  over 
my  head  like  that  old  'sword  of  Damocles'?" 

"Then  it  is  true?"  asked  Mag,  watching  Lil  half 
breathlessly. 

"Yes,"  he  cried,  his  voice  taking  a  defiant  ring, 
"it  is  true!  But  I  hope  I  shall  not  lose  my  place 
among  you  because  of  that." 

There  was  a  hum  of  congratulation  which  he  but 
half  heard.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Lil,  blood- 
shot, heavy,  anxious.  But  she  had  herself  so  com- 
pletely in  hand  that  she  did  not  even  change  color, 
It  surprised,  distressed,  chagrined  him. 

He  dared  not  approach  her  then,  and  stood  there 
beside  Mag,  trying  to  listen  to  the  chaff  in  which; 
she  was  indulging  for  his  benefit,  but  not  able  $1 


IJ08  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL  || 

hear  it  for  the  din  occasioned  by  the  beating  of  \l  .1 
•own  heart.  \i 

!  He  saw  Lil  leave  the  room,  and  was  about  to  makl 
some  excuse  for  following  her,  when  he  observed 
that  Maitland  had  forestalled  him. 

She  had  gone  to  the  dining-room  to  escape  them, 
but  almost  before  she  had  reached  it  Maitland  was 
at  her  side. 

"You  see!"  he  cried,  eagerly.     "I  told  you  so!     1 
knew  some  months  ago  that  they  were  to  be  married, 
and  I  warned  you,  but  you  would  not  believe  me« 
[You  are  convinced  now,  are  you  not?" 
•     She  turned  and  looked  at  him  coldly. 

"You  are  speaking  with  absolute  incoherence,* 
she  said,  quietly.  "Why  should  you  think  that  Mr, 
Sumner's  engagement  should  be  of  such  interest  to 
Hie?" 

He -looked  at  her  in  surprise.  He  was  not  deceived 
and  admired  her  more  than  he  had  ever  done  before 
for  the  brave  fight  that  she  was  making  against  hei 
emotions. 

He  made  a  gesture  of  deprecation. 
"Let  us  be  frank  with  each  other!"  he  exclaimed 
.with  brutal  candor.  "Of  course  I  know  to  whon 
it  was  that  you  expected  to  be  engaged  within  thirt] 
clays.  You  must  remember  what  I  saw  at  the  coun 
try  dance,  Lil.  I  am  not  saying  this  to  anger  you 
but  simply  because  so  much  depends  upon  it,  fo: 
me.  Do  you  mean  to  keep  to  the  terms  of  your  bet 
Lil?" 

He  was  looking  at  her  eagerly.  She  was  haughty 
singularly  uplifted  in  her  icy  coldness. 

"If  you  win  the  bet,  I  shall  pay  it,"  she  answered 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL;  logf 

frigidly.  "But  there  are  thirty  days  yet  to  expire 
before  you  can  demand  payment  on  a  debt  of  honor. 
You  have  no  right  to  speculate  upon  my  private  af- 
fairs, and  I  forbid  it !" 

She  swept  out  of  the  room  and  he  followed  her, 
hating  her,  perhaps,  more  than  he  loved  her  at  that 
moment. 

He  joined  Mag  upon  his  re-entrance  to  the  salon. 
*  "Well/*  she  whispered,  "what  news?  Are  you 
going  to  win  or  lose  your  bet?  I  rather  fancied  you 
were  playing  a  trump  card  when  you  announced  that 
bethrothal." 

He  smiled  enigmatically. 

"The  man  who  betrays  his  hand  has  small  chance  | 
of  winning/' 

"Look!     She  has  gone  into  her  boudoir,  and  he 
has   followed  her.      I  am  quite  convinced  that  oun 
little  iceberg  is  an  iceberg  no  longer,  and  that  she  \ 
loves  him." 

Maitland's  eyes  were  in  the  direction  of  Lil's  ( 
"boudoir.  When  he  could  make  an  excuse  for  leav- 
ing Miss  Vinita  he  did  so.  He  did  not  enter  the 
"boudoir,  but — he  knew  the  flat  thoroughly,  and  ha 
knew  from  what,  point  he  could  overhear  their  con- 
yersation  perfectly. 

.  Lil  turned  when  she  observed  that  she  had  been 
followed  into  the  sacred  precincts  of  her  own  bou~ 
'doir,  and  yet  she  was  not  surprised  when  she  saw 
\vho  it  was  that  had  come  after  her.  Her  first  in- 
clination was  to  send  him  from  her,  but  she  pulled 
herself  together  and  smiled. 

If  he  had  been  less  excited  he  must  have  seen  the 
glassy  expression  of  her  eyes,  the 


,  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

•revenge  that  sat  there;  but  Philip  Sumner  was  aj 
thoroughly  in  love  as  it  is  possible  for  man  to  bt. 
-He  was  maddened  by  what  he  had  done,  by  the 
thought  of  losing  her,  and  he  could  think  of  noth- 
ing else.  He  went  tip  to  her  passionately. 
.  "Lil,  Lil,  my  darling,  forgive  me!"  he  cried, 're- 
morsefully. "I  would  not  have  had  this  happen  for 
.a  thousand  worlds !  You  can  not  believe  me  so  cruel^ 
-so  utterly  without  manhood.  Oh,  Lil,  listen  to  me! 
I  worship  you !" 

She  gazed  into  his  eyes  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"Pouf!"  she  exclaimed,  lightly.  "You  are  con- 
verting a  mole-hill  into  at  mountain  with  a  venge- 
ance. I  hope  you  don't  imagine  for  one  moment 
that  I  am  the  broken-hearted  heroine  of  a  romantic 
-novel,  do  you?  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  when  you  en- 
tered the  room  to-night,  and  asked  about  the  merri- 
ment that  preceded  you,  I  had  just  been  telling 'my 
friends  that  within  a  month  I  should  announce  ^the 
iact  of  my  own  betrothal/' 
,  "Lil!"  ' 

"You  look  surprised.  Can  you  not  believe  in  the 
*ffeet>r 

"For  God's  sake,  tell  me  that  is  not  true!"  he  cried, 
hoarsely.  "I  could  not  bear  it!  To  see  you  the  wife 
'•of  another  man  would  be  madness!  Oh,  Lil,  can't 
•you  understand  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  me?" 

She  stood  back  and  looked  up  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, indignation  fighting  with  her  grief. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Sumner,"  she  said,  slowly,  "do  you 
realize  that  what  you  are  saying  is  an  insult  to-  me? 
Do  you  realize  that  in  offering  me  your  love  you 
-degrade  me,  ia&ult  the  woman  who  is  to  be  your 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  I  If: 

"wife,  and  put  an  end  to  my  respect  for  you?    Mjr 
heart  is  not  so  nearly  broken,  I  do  assure  you,  that 
I  need  the  avowal  of  a  passion  which  disgraces  itself, 
1  grant  you  that  I  am  a  dancing-girl,  a  woman  sup- 
posed by  the  general  public  to  be  acceptable  to  men 
because  she  pleases  the  depravity  in  them;  but  the 
general  public  is  not  always  right  in  its  assentations. 
Concerning  us.     If  you  have  shared  in  that  opinion,. 
it  is  quite  time  that  you  were  learning  your  mistake/*' 
"I  have  never  thought  anything  of  you  that  was 
not  good  and  true,"  he  answered,  humbly.    "I  swear 
*to  you  that,  if  I  were  free  to  follow  the  emotion, 
that  is  bursting  in  my  heart  at  this  moment,  I  would 
ou,  and  only  you,  to  be  my  wife.    But  I  am  not 
•free  Lil,  I  can  not  explain  the  matter  to  you,  because; 
;the  secret  is  not  mine,  but  that  of  another  to  whom 
I  am  bound  by  all  the  ties  of  nature  as  well  as  those 
of  heaven.    I  am  as  surely  fettered  as  the  veriest  slave.. 
I  mean  no  insult  to  your  purity  when  I  tell  you  that 
•1  adore  you,  that  the  only  happiness  of  my  soul  is  in. 
your  presence.     If  I  were  dying,  you  would  let  me 
speak  and  you  would  listen.    Well,  I  am  worse  than 
dying.    My  whole  soul  is  starving  for  wont  of  you,  and. 
yet  I  must  accept  this  marriage  that  has  been  thrust, 
upon  me  for  the  sake  of  others  who  have  a  right  to 
•'demand  of  me  what  they  will,  even  to  the  giving  up 
of  my  life.     I  can't  make  you  understand  this,' Lil? 
but  it  k  true — I  swear  it  to  you.     If  I  had  been  al- 
lowed to  tell  you  of  this  hateful  engagement  in  my 
own  way,  you  would  have  seen  it  differently.     OhV 
you  can't  hate  me  worse  than  I  do  myself  for  the 
duplicity  that  I  have  practiced ;  but  if  you  knew  what 
I  have  sufferrd,  you  /nig-fit  pity  me.     I  was  like  tHe 


112  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GK<L 

drowning  sinner  who  clutches  at  the  straw  which  he 
hopes  will  keep  him  out  of  hell  for  another  month  or 
year.  I  know  that  I  had  not  the  right  to  do  what  I 
did;  but,  my  God!  surely  something  can  be  forgiven 
the  man  who  is  to  be  shut  out  forever  into  outer  dark- 
ness. If,  in  his  despair,  he  tries  to  catch  one  more 
glimpse  of  heaven,  that  should  not  eternally  con- 
demn him.  Oh,  Lil,  darling,  only  tell  me  that  you 
forgive  me!  Only  that,  dear!  It  will  lighten  the 
awful  burden  that  I  must  bear.  It  seems  to  me  that- 
I  never  realized  the  hideous  position  as  I  do  to-night 
iii  the  light  of  your  contempt.  Sweet  one,  speak  to 
me!" 

He  held  out  his  hands  appealingly.  She  did  not 
understand  half  that  he  had  said,  but  she  knew  that 
she  loved  him  with  all  the  strength  of  her  long-silent 
heart.  She  could  not  decide  what  to  do.  One  mo- 
ment she  knew  that  it  must  be  to  send  him  from  her 
forever,  and  in  the  next  her  whole  soul  rebelled  against 
such  an  edict.  She  had  listened  to  his  voice  until  it 
had  crept  into  every  corner  of  her  throbbing  heart, 
and  as  he  put  out  his  hands  to  her  it  required  all  the 
strength  of  her  struggling  soul  to  resist  him. 
..  She  shrunk  back,  and  putting  her  hands  over  her  a 
ears,  cried  desperately : 

"Not  now— not  now!    Give  me  time  to  think,  Go,* 
'for  God's  sake !    I  have  guests;  I  must  return  to  them, 
and  they  must  not  suspect — suspect — " 

She  could  not  finish  the  sentence  she  had  begun.  - 
She  could  not  say  to  him:  "They  must  not  suspect 
that  Kirk  Maitland  has  struck  a  death-blow  to  my 
love;"  and  yet  that  is  what  she  would  have  said  if 
afas  had  completed  it. 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

Philip    Sumner   saw   that   she   was   suffering,   and 
with  a  tenderness  which  a  man  only  shows  to  the  wo- 
Iman  who  is  more  than  all  the  world  to  him,  he  took ' 
jher  hand  and  lifted  it  deferentially  to  his  lips, 
v     "I  am  going  back  to  them  now,7'  he  said,  gently. 
"But  promise  before  I  go  that  I  may  see  you  again?'' 

"Once  again,"  she  answered,  so  low  that  Kirk 
Maitland  did  not  hear,  but  he  knew  that  the  one  con* 
cession  had  been  granted  because  Philip  Sumnefl 
lejt  the  room  at  once. 

Maitland  had  resumed  his  old  seat  beside  Mag 
•when  Lil  rejoined  them,  and  there  was  no  indica^ 
lion  whatever  in  his  manner  that  he  had  heard  that 
conversation  which  had  told  him  so  much,  and  neither, 
Lil  nor  Philip  suspected. 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  it  is  because  actresses  possess 
the  art  of  concealment  so  perfectly  that  they  have 
the  name  of  being  heartless.  Certainly  one  would 
have  thought  Lil  so  during  the  remainder  of  that 
evening,  and  even  Mag  murmured  aside  to  Kirk  Mait- 
land : 

"I   was   mistaken.      The   iceberg   is   herself  again, 
I  am  rather  glad,    because  Lil  with  a  heart    would  i 
act  be  Lil  at  all." 

A-nd  Maitland  smiled. 

But  they  would  not  have  thought  it  if  they  could  i 
have  seen  the  poor>  white  face  that  was  turned  sud^j 
denly  to  Chetwynd  when  the  door  had  closed  upon 
the  last  guest.     His  expression  was  one  of  bewilder-  j 
ment,   consternation,    as    she   put   out   her   hands   tea 
him  helplessly. 

"Chef."     she     murmured,     miserably — "diet,     foe 


114  LIL,    THE   DANCING-GIRL 

God's  sake,  help  me!  Thank  Heaven  I  can  be  my;* 
self  to  you.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  laugli 
and  chatter  while  my  heart  is  breaking,  and  it  is  break* 
ing,  diet.  I  am  the  most  miserable  being  in  all  ths 
world  P 

He  sat  down  suddenly  and  she  flung  herself  upbttj 
her  knees  beside  him,  her  arms   falling  across   his 
la£>,  her  head  upon  them. 

She  could  not  see  the  whitened  anguish  of  his 
tenance. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"I  heard  of  your  engagement  only  last  evening, 
Miss  Langford,  and  I  wanted  to  congratulate  you 
before  your  return  to  Burton.  I  hope  you  appreci- 
ate my  generosity  fully.  It  isn't  every  fellow  that 
can  pocket  his  pride  and  humiliation  in  this  fashion, 
and  come  boldly  to  the  front  with  a  smile  on  his  lips/* 

Kirk   Maitland  was  standing  before   Olive  Lang- 
ford,  holding  her  hand  in  his.     She  had  just  entered  \ 
the  room  where  he  awaited  her,  and  as  he  greeted  I 
her,  a  playful    smile    curved  his    rather    handsome  j 

•  mouth.     She  laughed  as  she  withdrew  her  hand  and  ; 
motioned  him  to  a  seat.  I 

"Nonsense  P  she  exclaimed,  meeting  and  an- 
swering his  badinage.  "I  had  waited  for  you  to  come 

*  to  the  point  until  patience  ceased  to  interest.     You 
are  looking  remarkably  well  for  a  man  who  is  pocket- 
ing pride  and  humiliation.     Usually  when  a  man  is 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL 

carrying  such  things  about  with  him,  he  looks  rather 
like  one  who  is  concealing  dynamite.  But  who  told 
you  of  the  great  event  of  perspective  ?" 

"The  happy  man  himself.     But  I  predicted  it  ages 
ago." 
jj     "Really?" 

'Bless  me,  yes!     There  was  only  one  time  when 
J  had  even  a  shadowy  doubt  of  it." 
I      "When  was  that?" 

"You  would  be  offended  if  I  were  to  tell  you." 

"Not  I." 

"You  mean  that  you  are  too  happy  to  take  offense 
at  anything?  It  must  be  tremendously  pleasant  to 
be  in  love.  Tell  me,  isn't  it?" 

She  laughed  slightly. 

"I  think  that  sort  of  thing  has  been  relegated  to 
the  kitchen  of  late  years!"   she  answered,  indolent- 
"I  really  don't  believe  that  Philip  and  I  spoke 
of  that  phase  of  the  case  at  all." 

"You  don't  mean  it  ?" 

"I  think  I  should  have  sent  him  right  about  face 
if  he  had  expected  that  absurdity  of  me!"  she  ex- 
claimed, with  quiet  indifference,  leaning  back  in 
her  chair  and  fanning  herself  slowly.  "Of  course 
it  is  all  right  enough  for  a  man  and  his  wife  to  be  in 
love  with  each  other,  but  to  talk  of  it —  Pouf !  The 
cook  and  laundress  usurped  that  privilege  long  ago. 
But  come  back.  When  was  the  only  time  you  ever 
doubted  that  your  prediction  would  be  fulfilled.  I 
promise  that  I  shall  not  be  in  the  very  least  offended." 

He  looked  at  her  intently  for  a  moment.  She  had 
»ot  deceived  him  in  the  slightest  particular.  He 


Il6  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

knew  better  than  if  she  had  told  him  that  she  loved 
Philip  Sumner  with  a  passion  that  would  hesitate  at 
.nothing  to  acquire  its  ends,  but  he  only  smiled  quiet- 
ly as  he  answered: 

"I  was  inclined  to  think  that  the  little  school-teacher 
in  Burton  was  running  you  rather  close  last  month* 
.Now,  you  are  indignant  ?" 

He  leaned  toward  her  with  the  smile  deepening 
about  the  mouth.  He  observed  her  redden,  but  there 
was  no  change  in  her  voice  as  she  replied : 

/'Not  in  the  least.  Why  should  I  be?  On  the 
contrary,  I  think  it  something  to  have  gained  the  su- 
premacy when  my  rival  was*  so  beautiful  a  girl  as 
Miss  Esmonde.  By  the  way,  if  I  mistake  not  you 
were  a  trifle  hard  hit  in  that  quarter  yourself/' 

"I  ?    By  Jove !  no,    I  knew  her  too  well." 

"Knew  her  too  well!  Why,  what  do  you  mean? 
Wasn't  she  what  she  appeared?"  i 

'There!  I  beg  that  you  won't  ask  me  any  further 
questions,  1  shouldn't  have  said  that." 

"But  you  interest  me.  I  intended  to  ask  her  where 
.  she  could  be  found  on  my  return  to  New  York,  but 
forgot  it  the  night  of  the  dance,  and  did  not  see  hes 
afterward.  Can  you  tell  me  ?" 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  know?" 

"I  liked  her.    I  want  to  call  upon  her."  \ 

Kirk   Maitland   knew   that   she  had   lied,   and   yet 
he  replied,  as  if  he  fully  believed  in  the  words  that 
.  she  had  spoken : 

,  "Oh,  I  say!    You  can't  do  that,  you  know!" 

"Why  not?" 

"WelSr— er— the  truth  is,  it  won't  do;  that's  all!'". 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-U  ^  II? 

"But  I  insist  upon  knowing.  If  yo\  £uJ'l  til  me 
•where  she  lives,  I  shall  discover  for  my^tlf." 

"By  Jove!  you  make  it  hard  for  me,"  laughing, 
nevertheless.  "The  truth  is,  that,  like  the  line  in 
'Pinafore/  Miss  Esmonde  is  not  what  she  seems,  iihe 
is  not  a  school-teacher  at  all." 

Miss  Langford  suddenly  sat  up  very  straight.  The 
color  flashed  into  her  cheeks.  She  gazed  intently; 
at  Maitland. 

"Then  what  is  she?"  she  demanded. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  compel  me  to  tell  you/'  at> 
swcred  Maitland,  ruefully.  "The  fact  is,  I  am  half 
Vraid." 

"Please  go  on." 

/  "Well,  then,  since  you  will  have  it,  she  is  a  premier*) 
danseuset" 

"Mr.  Maitland!  And  knowing  that,  you  allowed 
me  to  receive  that  young  woman  in  my  house?" 

Miss  Langford  had  risen.  Her  cheeks  were  scorch- 
ing in  their  heat. 

"My  dear  Olive,  what  else  was' I  to  do?"  cried 
Maitland,  in  well-simulated  distress.  "The  first  tirm; 
I  saw  her  down  there  at  Burton,  she  made  a  very 
pretty  plea  to  me  to  not  tell  the  truth  about  her,  'and 
I  gave  her  my  word  of  honor  that  I  wDuld  not  betray 
her.  She  was  afraid  to  have  that  straight-laced  old 
father  of  hers  know  anything  about  it,  because  she 
knew  that  he  would  separate  her  from  her  mother 
and  that  little  deformed  sister  whom  she  worships, 
and  who  is  here  with  her  now  at  the  New  York  Hos- 
pital. If  you  could  have  heard  the  plea  she  made  td 
me,  you  would  not  have  blamed  me  for  yielding.  And 
after  I  had  pledged  my  word,  what  could  I  do?  Be- 


THE    DANCING-GIRL 

side  that.  Lil  is  not  a  bad  sort  at  all,  I  assure  y 

"Lil!  Then  she  is  the  person  known  as  Lil  ths 
dancing-girl?" 

"Yes?" 

Miss  Langford  sat  down  again.  The  color  had  I 
all  faded  from  her  cheeks ;  her  lips  were  white  and! 
compressed,  but  there  was  a  glitter  in  the  gray  eye^ 
that  did  not  escape  Maitland. 

"Did  Philip  Sumner  know  this?"  she  asked,  slow*' 
ly,  when  she  had  again  controlled  her  voice. 

'•No,  frankly,  he  did -not—then" 

"But  he  knows  now?" 

"Oh,  yes.  He  found  her  out  the  first  evening  of 
his  return — entered  the  room  while  she  was  dancing 
lor  some  friends,  I  believe,  and  surprised  her.  Her 
friends  were  laughing  over  it  heartily." 

"Then  she  lives  here  in  town  ?" 

"Oh,  yes;  she  has  a  flat  fit  for  a  princess  in  tlie 
Belleami.  You  would  scarcely  recognize  in  beauti- 
ful, gracious,  dazzling  Lil  the  demure  little  school- 
teacher who  was  present  at  your  country  dance.  I 
was  at  her  house  last  night  to  as  gorgeous  a  feast 
as  Vanderbilt  could  spread." 

I     "Really?    And  do  men  of  reputation  actually  go  I 
to  such  places  ?" 

i     "Well,  rather.    There  was  some  of  the  best  men  } 
in  town  there  last  night.    Why,  Phil  was  there.    Of 
course,  he    doesn't  mind    having    you  know,  or  he 
.wouldn't  have  gone  so  soon  after  your  engagement." 
}    "Oh,  of  course  not." 

"I  am  afraid,  just  the  same/'  with  an  assumption 
of  an  easy  laugh,  "that  I  was  inconsiderate  in  speak- 
ing  of  it.  You  women  are  such  peculiar  creatures. 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRCJ  I.. 1 9 

lYoit  won't  let  a  fellow  make  love  to  you,,  but  you 
are  indignant  if  he  makes  love  to  another  girl. 
Rather  dog-in-the-mangerish,  isn't  it?" 

"You  surely  don't  mean  that  Mr.  Sumner  was 
making  love  to — this  woman  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  no !  Don't  you  understand  me  to  say  such 
a  thing,  for  the  world.  By  Jove!  I  had  no  idea  it 
was  so  late.  Is  that  clock  I  heard  strike  right?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  owe  you  an  apology  for  having  detained 
you  so  long.  By  the  way,  I  hope  it  won't  be  neces- 
sary to  ask  you  not  to  speak  of  the  identity  of  pretty 
Li!  in  Burton?'1 

"Not  at  all.  I  am  rather  disappointed  in  what  you 
have  told  me.  I  was  hoping  that  I  might  have  been 
of  some  advantage  to  her.  Good-evening,  Mr.  Mait- 
land.  Remember,  if  you  can  get  a  few  days  from 
business,  that  it  would  be  a  positive  charity  to  have 
you  run  up  to  Burton  whenever  you  can." 

"Thanks.  You  may  be  sure  I  shall  not  forget. 
Good-bye,  and  every  happiness  in  the  new  life." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Kirk  Maitland  was  gone.  Without  a  word,  Olive 
Langford  mounted  the  great,  broad  stair- way  of  her 
ieiegant.  home  and  entered  her  own  room;  but  there 
v/as  a  whiteness  and  compression  about  the  lips  that 
would  have  been  a  warning  to  one  accustomed  to 
her  moods.  She  walked  deliberately  over  to  the  win- 
dow, and  stood  there  .staring,  out  into  the  warm  sun* 


'I2O  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

light,  down  into  the  hot,  dusty  street,  and  watched 
him  out  of  sight.  Then  she  turned  about,  seeming 
to  face  herself  rather  than  vacancy. 
|  '  "And  so,"  she  said,  aloud,  slowly,  "this  is  the  mean- 
ing of  it  is  it?  It  is  that  he  is  actually  paying  atten* 
tions  to— worse  than  an  actress — a  premiere  danseusei 
H'm !  Disgracing  himself ;  bringing  pity — actual  pitjr 
ifrom  my  friends  upon  me — and  giving  to  her  that 
[which  is  mine  by  every  right.  Last  night — two  day* 
'betrothed,  and  I  am  left  alone  with  his  mother,  while 
he  seeks  his  pleasure  in  the  society  of  a  premiere  dan- 
]seitse!  Verily  it  is  a  poetic  beginning  to  a  love-life! 
But  it  is  her  fault,  curse  her!  He  had  never  thought 
of  wandering  from  me  until  she  came  with  her 
loathsome  beauty  to  tempt  him  from  me.  I  see  it  all 
as  clearly  as  if  Kirk  Maitland  had  told  me  all  he 
knows.  She  came  to  Burton  with  those  precious  stor- 
ies of  her  wonderful  bravery  and  purity  of  life.  She 
[won  his  heart  then  from  me;  and  now,  when  he  has 
'discovered  her  to  be  what  she  it,  it  is  too  late  for  him 
to  take  back  his  love — it  is  hers.  He  knows  that  he 
cannot  make  her  his  wife,  and  so  he  put  me  between 
him  and  that  temptation,  like  the  coward  that  hides 
•behind  the  wall  in  battle.  But  he  continues  to  give  her 
his  love,  an,d  she  accepts  it,  feeling,  knowing  that  she 
is  robbing  me  of  the  best  part  of  him  and  glorying  in 
tier  ability  to  do  it — her  cursed  triumph  over  me !  But 
I  will  not  give  him  up  to  her.  Great  heavens !  I  can 
not.  There  are  a  thousand  reasons  which  make  that 
an  impossibility;  but  I  would  not,  if  the  power  were 
Inine.  .We  shall  see,  my  pretty  dancer,  who  shall 
in!" 
She  sat  down  calmly,  deliberately  in  an  armchair 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  121 

near  the  window,  and  went  methodically  to  work  to  re- 
call every  word  of  the  interview  that  had  just  passed 
between  her  and  Kirk  Maitland.  She  weighed  the 
points  with  a  care  that  would  have  done  credit  t<5  a 
general  in  time  of  war.  Her  lips  were  set  and  white ; 
but  there  was  no  wild  impulse  of  passion  in  her  man- 
ner to  excuse  her  act,  no  torturing  anguish  to  palliate 
her  offence — nothing  but  premeditated  revenge. 

She  arose  deliberately  and  went  to  the  writing-table 
at  the  corner  of  the  room.  She  sat  down  quietly,  and 
first  wrote  a  note  to  her  father. 

"DEAR  OLD  DAD/'  it  began— "I  find  that  it  will  be 
impossible  for  me  to  get  back  to  Burton  on  the  day  ex- 
pected. You  will  know  how  to  make  excuses  that 
will  cover  my  absence,  which  is  imperative  at  present. 
It  is  in  connection  with  that  precious  matter  of  which 
I  have  already  written  you.  I  am  not  wasting  my 
time  in  Elysian  Fields,  I  assure  you,  but  will  explain 
everything'  when  I  see  you.  Your  ever-loving  and 
dutiful  daughter,  OLIVE/' 

The  "dutiful"  she  underscored,  while  a  grim  smile 
shadowed  her  tightly  drawn  lips. 

-  She  sealed  and  addressed  the  letter,  and  then  began 
another  with  equal  deliberation,  though  the  handwrit- 
ing was  not  in  the  very  least  the  same.  The  most 
gifted  expert  in  chirography  would  have  found  it  d 
cult  to  have  traced  a  point  of  resemblance,  and  yet  she 
wrote  the  second  letter  wth  almost  as  much  ease  and 
rapidity  as  she  had  done  the  first. 

"If  Jonathan  Esmonde  wishes   to  know  the  real 
character  of  the  life  that  his  daughter  Lillian  is  lead- 


$22  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

ing — that  daughter  to  whcm  he  has  confided  the  care 
of  his  little,  deformed  child — he  may  learn  it  by  com- 
ing at  once  to  New  York.  If  he  will  come  on  the 
train  leaving  Burton  at  9  a.  m.,  Wednesday,  he  will 
foe  met  at  the  depot  in  New  York  by  one  who  will  give 
him  all  the  information  he  seeks." 

That  was  all;  but  she  folded  the  cruel  thing  with  as 
much  care  as  she  had  bestowed  upon  the  other,  ad- 
'dressed  it,  then  took  both  to  the  letter-box,  and  posted 
them  with  her  own  hands. 

'\\  There  was  not  the  slightest  expression  of  regret 
lipon  her  countenance  when  the  letter  fell  into  the  box, 
and  she  knew  that  it  was  gone  beyond  recall.  She 
Sid  not  even  look  back  as  she  left  it  there  to  go  upon 
its  Hateful  mission.  She  walked  away  as  quietly  and 
erectly  as  she  had  come,  only  that  there  was  a  sub- 
idued  light  of  triumph  in  her  hard  gray  eyes. 
j  Since  Arny  had  been  in  New  York,  Jonathan  Es- 
mond had  visited  thr  little  country  post-office  more 
often  than  he  had  ever  done  before,  for  there  were 
two  daughters  to  hear  from  now. 
i  He  had  not  said  much  in  encouragement  of  Lillian's 
plan  with  regard  to  Amy,  but  there  was  great  hope  in 
his  silent  soul  of  the  good  results  that  might  be  ac- 
complished. 

.And  so  it  was  with  eagerness  that  he  tore  open  his 
letters,  anxious  for  the  latest  news.  It  was  seldom 
that. -he- .received  a  communication  through  the  mails 
except  from  either  Amy  or  Lillian,  and  therefore  lie 
'did  not  stop  to  look  at  the  handwriting  upon  the  en- 
velope when  the  post-master  threw  out  a  letter  on -the 
Kay  after 'the  mailing  of  that  epistle  in  New  York. 


'JL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  I2j 

Jut  when  Jonathan  Esmonde  had  read  it,  he  stopped 
md  grew  as  white  as  the  cotton  shirt  he  had  put  on 
:fesh  in  which  to  go  to  town. 

He  did  not  understand  it  in  the  least,  and  read 
igain  artd  again  before  he  could  bring  himself  to  any 
:omprehension  of  its  contents.    He  lifted  his  hand  < 
nis  head  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way  and  repeated  aloud : 

"If  Jonathan  Esmonde  wishes  to  know  the  real  char- 
acter of  the  life  that  his  daughter  Lillian  is  leading! 
If  Jonathan  Esmonde  wishes  to  know—    What  can  il 
mean?    Don't  I  know  what  sort  of  life  my  girl 
leading?    Don't  I  know  she  is  teachin'—    Good  God! 
it  couldn't  be  my  LillHn  has-    Oh,  sho'l    You  old 
fool   ain't  you  never  learned  no  better  sense  than 
pay  attention  to  people  as  ain't  got  nerve  enough 
sign  their  name  to  a  letter?    You  grow  a  greater  f 
every  day  you  live,  Jonathan  Esmonde !" 

But  for  all  his  philosophy  he  was  more  silent  than 
ever  as  he  made  the  few  purchases  his  wife  had 
quested,  and  ever  before  his  eyes  those  words  seeme, 
to  dance  wildly,  like  the  writing  upon  the  wall  at 

feast  of  Belshazzar:    "If  Jonathan  Esmonde  wish 

to  know  the  real  character  of  the  life  that  his  daught 

Lillian  is  leading!" 
t     His  back  was  bent  more  than  ever  as  he  chad 

into  the  spring-wagon  and  turned  the  old  horses 
!  toward  home.  .,  . 

I      He  took  the  letter  out  of  his  pocket  and  read 

again  as  he  rode  sloag,  and  then  he  tried  bravely  J 

philosophize  as  he  had  done  before,  but  it  didnt  con* 

readily  to  his  mind  or  his  lips. 
"Any  letters?"  his  wife  asked,  cheerily,  as 

into  the  yard. 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

"No!"  he  answered,  grimly. 

'  There  was  nothing  he  had  always  detested  more 
than  a  lie,  and  he  hated  himself  for  the  utterance  of 
that  one,  but  he  quieted  his  conscience  by  saying  to 
himself : 

"There  ain't  no  use  a-worryin'  her  over  it." 

He  sat  down  to  his  supper  in  grim  silence.  Once 
or  twice  Mrs.  Esmonde  tried  to  make  conversation, 
but  it  was  a  flat  failure,  and  she  gave  it  up  in  despair; 
at  last. 

"It   seems   lonesomer   than   ever   sence   Lily   took 
!Amy  with  her,  don't  it  father?"  she  said,  when  they, 
had  mounted  the  stairs  to  their  little  room. 
i     He  answered  only  with  a  grunt,  and  one  that  she- 
Could  not  translate,  then  they  went  to  bed  in  silence.     » 

But  Jonathan  Esmonde  did  not  sleep.    His  wife  lay;  j 
there  breathing  peacefully,  but  the  sting  of  suspicion 
had  entered  his  soul.     In  whichever  way  he  turned 
he  saw  those  cruel  words,  blood-red,  glaring  before 
tis  eyes.  i! 

He  arose  the  following  morning  with  a  dull  pain 
across  his  eyes,  and  a  haggard  whiteness  upon  his 
brow  that  was  most  unaccustomed. 

"Why,  Jonathan,  what  in  the  name  o'  sense  air  you 
a-doin'  with  your  Sunday  clothes  on  and  this  only;" 
[Wednesday,  and  that  hay-field  to  cut?"  asked  his  wife, 
iwhen  he  had  descended  to  the  breakfast-room  a  littla  ] 
later  than  usual,  dressed  in  his  best  blue  jeans. 

He  turned  his  eyes  from  her  guiltily. 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  to  cut  the  hay-field  to-day  Miranda.* 

"Why?    And  it  all  burned  up  now  with  the  sun."  j 

"It  kin  wait  another  day/' 
air  you  gom'J* 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  I2j 

There  was  a  sullen  determination  upon  his  counten- 
ance when  he  replied,  an  expression  that  indicated 
something  of  the  shame  that  he  felt  at  the  resolution 
he  had  taken.  He  did  not  look  at  her,  and  her  breath! 
almost  left  her  body  in  her  surprise  as  he  replied : 

"I  a:n  a-goin'  to  New  York  on  the  nine-o'clock! 
•i!" 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Lil  and  Chetwynd  breakfasted  together  the  follow- 
ing morning.  It  was  late,  after  twelve  o'clock,  but 
in  the  white  face  of  each,  one  could  read  the  lack  of 
sleep. 

They  were  very  silent,  in  fact  scarcely  a  word  had 
been  spoken  during  the  entire  meal,  and  it  was  not 
until  after  his  cigar  had  been  lighted,  upon  their  re- 
turn to  Lil's  boudoir,  that  Chetwynd  began  to  show; 
the  nervousness  that  was  oppressing  him. 
f     He  got  up  and  walked  about,  his  movements  remind- 
ing one  of  those  of  a  panther  in  a  cage,  circumscribed 
I  as  he  was  by  the  small,  dainty  well-filled  room.     Lil 
Lwas  seated  beside  the  window,  looking  out  in  a  listless 
half-unconscious  way,  and  did  not  know  that  he  was 
moving  until  he  struck  against  a  table  littered  with 
silver  toilet  knick-knacks— a  thing  most  unusual  for 
the  lithe,  graceful  dancing-master—then  she  lifted  her 
head  and  looked  £t  him. 

"You.  are  nervous,  Chet,"  she  said,  as  if  she  had  but 
just  discovered  the  fact.  "Come  and  sit  down,  won't 


LIL,   THE    DANGING-GtRL 

-  voice  was  not  in  the  least  like  LiFs.  It  was 
,  and  dull,  and  hollow,  like  that  of  a  person 
served  a  long  apprenticeship  in  the  school  o{ 
,  and  yet  has  never  learned  resignation.  Chet-< 
;wynd  stopped  in  his  walk  and  looked  at  her  sorrowful- 
ly then  he  went  and  drew  up  a  chair  near  her. 

"Lil,"  he  said,  gently,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you,  dear, 
and  I  scarcely  know  how  to  begin.  It  seems  to  me  as 
if  you  were  on  the  verge  of  some  great  calamity,  and 
that  my  hand  alone  could  save  you,  and  yet  I  half 
fear  to  stretch  it  forth.  Lil,  you  know  that  —  I  love 
you,  dear  ?" 

>  There  was  something  in  the  tone,  a  low  tremulous 
earnestness,  that  would  have  told  a  listening  woman 
all  the  painful,  pitiful  truth,  but  Lil  was  not  listening 
that  way.  She  heard  the  words,  but  nothing  more. 

"Yes/'  she  answered,  gratefully.  "I  know  you  lovef 
me,  Chet,  as  my  father  ought  to,  and  perhaps  does  in 
his  own  way." 

He  winced.  She  had  hurt  him  more  than  a  dagger 
thrust  could  have  done:  but  with  his  old  patience  and 
generosity  he  hid  his  pain,  gulped  down  his  anguish' 
and  continued,  softly: 

"I  said  nothing  to  you  last  night,  little  one,  because 
viwell,  because  your  grief  and  my  own  surprise  silenced 
me.  I  listened  to  you  in  sympathy,  but  without  a 
,word  of  advice,  because  I  felt  myself  incapable  of  giv- 
ing it,  but  —  I  did  not  sleep  last  night,  Li!.  AH  night 
I  was  thinking  of  you,  and  your  terrible  sorrow,  think- 
ing of  the  stand  that  you  had  taken,  and  —  and  —  Oh, 
Lil,  I  wish  I  could  make  you  understand  how  I  suf- 
fered through  it  I" 

The  wistfuf  sorrow  even  then  did  not  touch  her, 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL 

yet  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him-  gratefully. 

"I  do  understand  it,  Chet."  she  said  slowly. 

lien  you  will  let  me  advise  you?  You  will  listen 
to  nie?" 

"Yes.    You  know  I  will." 

"Then  little  one,  give  up  Philip  Sumner.  A  man 
capable  of  what  he  has  done  is  not  worthy  of  your 
slightest  thought.  Be  true  to  yourself,  dear.  Th« 
betrothed  husband  of  another  woman  should  be  S3--- 
cred.  lrorliid  his  entering  your  presence,  Lil!" 

:  snatched  her  hand  from  him  and  covered  her 
face  with  it  for  a  moment,  then  she  arose  slowly  and 
stcod  there,  h  mate  face  turned  toward 

him. 

"I  can't!"  she  cried  hoarsely.  "I  can't!  I  tell  you 
I  love  him  better  than  I  do  my  life!  Do  you  think 
not  fought  with  myself?  Do  you  think 
I  have  not  tried  to  conquer?  Oh,  Chet,  what  do  you 
know  of  love?  You  stand  there  in  your  impregnable 
coldness  and  chatter  of  a  thing  of  which  you  have 
never  experienced  one  thought,  even  in  dreams.  You 
kno\v  no  more  of  it  than  a  polar  bear  would,  and  yet — 
Chet,  for  God's  sake,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

He  had  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  closed  his  eyes. 

A  blue  line  had  grown  around  his  white  lips.     His 

face  was  ghastly,  its  muscles  twitching  convulsively. 

[There  was  an  appearance  of  absolute  physical  pain  in 

I  his  countenance,  and  Lil  fell  upon  her  knees  at  the 

<ide  of  this  man  who  had  been  the  truest,  most  loyal 

friend  she  had  ever  known,  and  placed  her  hand  upon 

his  face  to  turn  it  toward  her. 

If  a  seer  ing  iron  had  touched  him  he  could  hot  have 


ET28  ;UL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 


shrunk  from  it  mere,  and  yet  he  opened  his  eye#  ' 
Smiled  bravely  into  her  own. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered,  gently.  "I  was  only  listen* 
ing." 

She  sank  tack  upon  the  floor  with  her  feet  under 
!her,  her  hands  fallen  in  her  lap,  and  looked  up  at  him, 

"A  man  does  not  turn  white  like  that  who  is  merely; 
listening."  she  said,  slowly.  "I  am  afraid  I  have  been 
selfish,  old  fellow,  thinking  only  of  my  own  suffering, 
(While  you  —  -  What  is  it,  old  friend  ?  Aren't  you  well  ?" 

The  expression  of  his  face  was  almost  of  disgust. 
He  v/aved  his  hand  deprecatingly. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me.  Go  on! 
[What  were  you  saying?" 

She  regarded  him  intently  while  she  replied  : 

"I  was  just  saying  that  you  knew  no  more  about 
love  than  a  polar  bear  whose  every  sentiment  has  been 
-frozen  in  the  ice  that  belongs  to  him  by  habit,  and 
(without  which  he  could  not  exist." 

Not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved,  and  yet,  when  she 
Had  finished  the  sentence,  she  sat  there  staring  up  at 
him  in  a  stupid  sort  of  way,  as  if  a  book  in  an  un- 
known language  had  been  opened  before  her  eyes  and 
a  great  desire  had  seized  her  to  know  its  contents, 
|.  He  had  closed  his  eyes  again. 

"Go  on  !"  he  said,  with  a  half-cynical  smile  playing 
about  his  lips.  1 

She  hesitated  for  some  time,  so  long,  in  fact,  th'at 
he  opened  his  eyes  slightly  and  looked  at  her.  Her 
own  were  still  fixed  curiously  upon  his  face.  She 
Jiad  apparently  forgotten  herself. 

"I  have  suddenly  doubted  the  truth"  of  my  own 
Statement,"  she  said,  hesitatingly.  "You  told  me 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  '£29 

last  night,  Chet,  that  you  had  never  made  love  to  a 
girl  in  your  life.  .Was  it  true?" 

"Quite  true:" 

"But  that  was — not  saying  that—you  had  never 
loved  one.  was  it,  old  man?" 
j{    He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  answered  painfully: 

*'Xo,  dear.  That  was — not  saying  tftat  I — had 
never — loved  one." 

|  "Oh,  Chet!"  she  gasped.  "Somehow  I  feel  as  if 
my  inexperienced  hand  had  suddenly  opened  an  awful 
wound  which  had  hurt  you — uselessly.  Forgive  me» 
will  you,  old  friend?" 

"There  5s  nothing  to  forgive,"  h£  answered,  pain- 
fully.  "You  have  done  no  wrong.  And  even  if  you 
had,  there  need  never  be  any  talk  of  forgiveness  be- 
tween you  and  me,  Lil !" 

"And  it  was— it  was  unhappy,  Chet?"  she  asked 
tremulously. 

He  smilled  bitterly. 

"She  thought  no  more  of  me,  dear,"  he  answered 
piteously,  "than  she  would  have  thought  of  air.  It 
was  a  necessity,  but  nothing  more — nothing-  thought 
of,  nothing  loved.  And  yet — and  yet — God!  I  would 
have  died  to  win  a  look  from  her  eye — a  look  even  of 
the  recognition  of  my  love  without  reciprocation.  But 
it  is  all  vain,  all  hopeless.  There !  I  did  not  intend 
to  tell  you  this.  You  rather  surprised  it  from  me, 
That  is  all !" 

"And  I  never  knew!  I  never  suspected!  OK, 
Chet!" 

He  smikd  grimly,  then  quoted  slowly,  with  a  den4ef 
'/Ort  of  passion ; 


LIJ^    THE    DANCCNG-GIRL 

"With  the  river's  roar  of  passion 

Is  blended  the  dying  groan; 
(But  here,  in  the  halls  of  fashion, 

Hearts  break  and  make  no  moan. 
And  the  music,  swelling  and  sweeping, 

Like  the  river,  knows  it  all ; 
But  none  are  counting  or  keeping 

The  lists  of  those  who  fall"  " 


•There  was  a  long  silence.  She  had  crept  closely, 
to  him*  Her  beautiful  head  rested  against  his  knee* 
She  knew  his  secret — in  part,  but  no  thought  of  die 
object  of  his  idolatry  had  entered  her  head.  She  di4 
not  ask,  for  fear  of  embarrassing*  him,  but  the  possi* 
bility  that  it  could  be  she,  herself,  had  never  came  to 
her. 

And  so  she  sat  there  with  her  head  against  his  kne$» 
thinking  while  he  suffered. 

He  mastered  himself  at  last  and  laid  his  hand  calmljr 
Upon  the  lovely  auburn  hair. 
,     She  lifted  her  face  and  smiled  at  him  sadly. 

"Do  y^a  think  now,  dear,  that  I  can  advise  you?*1' 
he  asked,  gently. 

"Yes  Chet." 

"Then  promise  me  this :  that  you  will  not  see 
Philip  Sumner  again." 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  answered  slowly : 

"I  can  not  promise  that  for  this  reason :  Other  men 
who  are  even  married  come  here,  If  I  were- to  forbid 
his  coming,  I  should  have  to  confess  to  my  friends 
that  he  was  the  man  to  whom  I — I  referred  last  even- 
ing. I  should  be  forced  to  acknowledge  by  act,  if  not 
by  word,  that  I  had  been  deceived — jilted.  5"  can't  do 


LIL,   THE  DANCING-GIRL  IJ1 

that,  oid  fellow.  My  pride  won't  let  me.  But  I  will 
promise  you  this :  that  he  shall  never  speak  another 
word  of  love  to  me.  Will  that  satisfy  you,  old  man  ?'9 

"Yes,  if  you  can  trust  yourself,  Lil." 
|t     "I  Shall  learn  self-control  of — you,"  she  answered, 
gently. 

A  peal  at  the  door-bell  interrupted  them.  It  was 
answered  by  the  maid,  and  a  man  entered  hastily. 

"You,  Felix!"  exclaimed  Lil.    "How  kind  of  you!" 

"Not  kind  to-day!"  he  cried,  shaking  hands,  while 
he  held  his  hat  and  nodded  to  Chetwynd. 

"Why?     Give  your  hat  to—" 

"No,  no;  I'm  in  an  awful  hurry.  I've  only  come 
to  ask  a  favor.  You  remember  the  benefit  for  the 
Sick  Babies'  Fund?" 

"Yes." 

"It  was  to  have  taken  place  last  week,  but  was 
postponed  because  of  the  illness  of  Nathalie  Vinita 
until  to-night;  and  now  Carmalita,  upon  whom  they 
have  principally  depended,  pretends  to  be  ill,  but  in 
reality  is  in  one  of  her  usual  tantrums.  I  have  come 
to  ask  if  you  will  save  the  whole  thing  from  financial 
as  well  as  artistic  failure  by  taking  her  place.  I  want 
j  to  know  at  once,  so  that  an  immediate  announcement 
1'can  be  made.  It  will  mean  a  great  deal  to  the  babies, 
as  you  are  perfectly  aware  that  there  is  no  woman  in 
New  York,  barring  yourself,  who  could  hope  to  draw 
4  house  in  this  beastly  weather.  Will  you  do  it??s 

"Of  course  I  will.    To-night,  you  say?" 

"Yes." 

"But  it  is  too  late  for  an  announcement." 

There  will  be  ample  time  for  the  afternoon 


M32  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

papers,  and  some  special  arrangement  will  be  ma*!e 
about  the  clubs," 

1     "All  right.     I  shall  be  glad  to  do  what  I  cati  for 
Ihe  babies." 

"A  thousand  thanks.  You've  saved  us.  I  shall 
lead  the  orchestra,  so  that  you  need  not  fear  for  the 
jmusic.  Ta-ta!  Be  sure  you  are  on  time." 

"You  may  count  upon  me.    Come  to  supper  after 
Ithe  performance." 
1     "Thank's  again.    Good-bye." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

T  The  train  that  left  Burton  at  9  a.  m.  was  two  hours 
late,  and  yet,  in  spite  of  that  fact,  a  woman  stood 
patiently  upon  the  platform  awaiting  it. 
I  She  was  not  a  stylish  woman,  although  her  form 
twas  slight  and  well-shaped,  her  black  gown  not  fit- 
Iting  her  so  well  as  it  should  have  done,  and  yet  not 
attracting  attention  from  its  ill  fit.  Her  hair  was 
fciightly  sprinkled  with  gray,  and  was  worn  after  the 
[present  fashion  among  the  under  classes  of  middle- 
aged  women,  an  inconspicuous  bonnet  surmounting 
It.  Her  ringless  hands  were  incased  in  black  lace 
(mitts,  and  her  eyes  shaded  by  a  pair  of  ordinary 
Students'  glasses. 

1  There  was  nothing  about  her  to  attract  the  slight- 
jest  attention  aside  from  her  motionless  attitude  as 
tthe  train  rolled  up  to  the  platform,  but  there  was  a 
nervous  grasp  at  the  handle  of  a  well-worn  umbrella 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRC; 

3he  carried  as  an  old  countryman  stepped  almost 
feebly  from  the  train.  v 

Jonathan  Esmonde  was  a  youngish  man,  in  spits 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  referred  to  half  his  life 
as  "Old  Jonathan  Esmonde."  He  was  bent  from 
hard  and  continuous  labor,  and  his  hair  was  grizzled^ 
but  he  had  always  been  as  strong  as  an  ox,  and  had 
never  known  a  moment  of  real  fatigue  in  his  lifej 
yet,  as  he  stepped  from  that  train,  he  seemed  to  hav$ 
aged  years  in  the  few  short  hours  since  receiving 
that  anonymous  letter. 

He  leaned  heavily  on  his  cane  as  he  ambled  from 
the  train  and  glanced  hastily  about  him.  He  had 
never  been  in  a  city  before  in  his  life,  and  New  York' 
is  a  big  place  to  a  man  who  has  been  accustomed 
to  Burton.  Therefore  he  felt  more  lonely  than  he 
ever  remember  feeling  before — lonely  and  lost  and 
weary,  aside  from  a  certain  stinging  sensation  ofi 
disgust  with  himself  for  paying  any  attention  to  the 
communications  of  an  anonymous  correspondent.  } 

He  rather  hoped,  in  a  vague  and  undefined  sort 
of  way,  that  there  would  be  no  one  there  to  meet 
him,  as  he  had  already  decided  what  he  should  do 
in  such  an  event,  and  he  became  a  shade  paler  as  ha 
saw  that  a  woman  had  started  toward  him. 

He  stopped  still  and  looked  at  her  scutinizinglyt 
nothing  in  the  least  inviting  confidence  in  his  hag- 
gard countenance,  and  she  paused  a  moment  before 
saying,  in  a  low,  almost  thrilling  tone: 

"Are  you  Jonathan  Esmonde?*' 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  be,"  he  answered,  with  more  gen- 
.trine- dignity  in  his  hard  face  than  had  ever  been  there 


134  kIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

before.  "And  be  you  the — the  woman  as  sent  me  a 
letter  about — about  my  daughter  ?' 

She  hesitated  a  moment  before  replying.  Either 
she  had  not  anticipated  the  question,  or  she  had 
changed  her  plans  with  regard  to  what  she  would  say, 
to  him,  for  she  seemed  to  consider  before  saying: 

"I  am  not !  The — lady  who  wrote  that  letter  is  ill, 
and  could  not  come  herself,  and  so  she  sent  me." 

"You  mean  she  didn't  have  the  courage  to  face  .the 
lie  she  had  put  on  that  paper !"  he  cried,  indignantly. 

"No,"  replied  the  woman,  courteously.  "I  do,  not 
mean  that.  The  lady  has  acted  only  in  a  spirit  of 
friendliness  toward  you.  She  has  seen  your  daughter, 
and  she— she  pities  you — her  father — who  have  been 
so  deceived  in  the  story  that  she  has  told  you — in.  the 
lie  which  she  has  lived." 

"What  is  it  you  air  a-sayin?"  demanded  old  Jona- 
than, straightening  himself  up.  "I'll  not.  listen  to  you! 
I  wus  a  fool  fur  a-comin',  that's  what  I  wus,  an'  if 
there  wus  a  train  goin'  back  now,  I'd  take  it !" 

A  cynical  smile  curved  the  woman's  lips. 

"Why?"  she  sneered.  "Because  you  fear  to  put  my 
words  to  the  test.  Because  something  tells  you  that 
I  have  spoken  only  the  truth?" 

"No!"  cried  Jonathan,  harshly.  "Because  I  know 
it  is  a  lie !" 

"Then  you  have  but  to  test  it.  If  you  are  not  cfraid 
come  with  me !" 

She  stood  there  before  him,  looking  into  his  face* 
From  hard  defiance,  his  expression  began ,  to  grow 
shrinking.  Something  of  the  same  doubt  that  had  as- 
sailed him  in  the  darkness  of  the  preceding  night 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  135 

again.  It  was  like  the  voice  of  the  devil  pleading  in 
his  ear. 

"Go  on !"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

She  turned  away.  In  spite  of  the  long  day  it  was 
already  dark,  and  the  lights  from  the  city  blinded  the 
old  countryman. 

The  whirl  of  carriages,  the  calls  of  the  drivers,  the 
noise  of  the  street  cars  and  loaded  trucks  bewildered 
him,  and  he  stood  in  the  door  of  the  Grand  Central 
Depot,  looking  about  him  in  a  wray  that  was  pitiful.  • 

It  might  have  touched  the  heart  of  another  woman, 
but  the  one  beside  him  only  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm,  as  if  to  hasten  him. 

"Have  you  had  any  dinner?"  she  asked.  "Do  you 
want  anything  to  eat?" 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  as  if  he  scarcely 
comprehended  the  question  she  had  put,  then  answered 
huskily : 

"I  don't  want  nothin'.    It  'ud  choke  me!" 

In  spite  of  the  plainness  of  her  attire,  she  led  him 
toward  a  cab  that  had  been  previously  engaged,  and 
hurried  him  into  it.  He  obeyed  her  as  if  he  were  act- 
ing under  the  influence  of  hypnotism,  and  after  she 
had  spoken  a  few  words  to  the  driver  she  took  her  seat 
beside  him. 

When  the  door  had  closed  he  turned  to  her  almost 
pleadingly : 

"For  God's  sake!"  he  cried,  "tell  me  wfat  all  this 
means?  Where  is  my  daughter?" 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  to  her,"  answered  the  wo- 
man, resolutely.  "You  would  never  take  my  word  if 
I  were  to  tell  you  the  sort  of  life  that  your  daughter 
•s  leading.  Yon  wou!d  tell  me  again  that  I  had  lied  * 


136  L1L,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

but  for  the  respect  I  bear  you  and  your  poor  wife,  in 
order  that  I  may  save  you  the  disgrace  that  will  fall 
upon  you  when  your  neighbors  discover  the  truth,  I 
am  going  to  prove  my  words  even  before  they  arc 
spoken,  If  I  do  not  succeed,  you  may  then  call  me  the 
liar  that  you  try  to  believe  me  and  can  not !" 

Jonathan  Esmonde  did  not  reply.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  power  had  left  him.  He  leaned  back  among 
the  cushions  as  the  cab  rattled  over  the  rough  cobble- 
stones, and  looked  out  at  the  lights  with  eyes  that  saw; 
nothing.  He  seemed  to  be  suddenly  drawn  up  and 
withered,  but  it  inspired  no  pity  in  the  heart  of  the 
woman  beside  him. 

It  was  in  front  of  a  theater,  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  imposing  in  the  metropolis,  that  the  cab  stopped. 
The  blaze  of  lights  in  front  almost  dazzled  the  old 
countryman.  He  saw  a  board  in  front  of  him,  as  he 
descended  from  the  cab,  with  great  black  letters  upon 
it,  announcing: 

BENEFIT 

FOR   THE 

SICK  BABIES'  FUND. 

But  that  told  Jonathan  Esmonde  nothing.  He  glanced 
about  him  in  a  puzzled,  bewildered  sort  of  way,  then 
stopped  still  upon  the  sidewalk. 

"What's  this?"  he  demanded  of  the  woman  beside 
him. 

"A  theater,"  she  answered,  laconically. 

"What  have  I  got  to  do  with  theaters?"  he  de^ 
manded,  "I  ain't  a-goin'  in  there/' 

"If  you  want  to  see  your  daughter  Lillian,  yot* 
Will/'  she  replied,  resolutely. 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

!My  daughter  Lillian  in  there — in  a  theater  ?  What 
you  a-talkin'  about?  Why,  she's  a  respectable 
men  ber  o'  the  Methodist  church  an'  wus  never  in  a 
theat  >r  in  her  life." 

Thu  woman  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Aro  you  going  to  make  your  trip  to  New  York 
useless  ?"  she  questioned  in  a  hard  tone. 

And  cgain  he  listened  to  the  voice  of  the  devil. 

Reluctantly  he  allowed  her  to  lead  him  inside  the 
theater.  The  buzz  of  the  fans,  the  hum  of  conversa- 
tion, the  Leat  of  the  atmosphere  sickened  him,  but  she 
ted  him  ovi  relentlessly.  Because  of  the  lateness  of 
the  hour  at  which  the  announcement  of  Lil's  appear- 
ance had  been  made,  she  had  been  unable  to  obtain 
as  good  j/eats  as  she  desired,  but  she  knew  that  the 
stage  was  well  seen  from  any  part  of  the  auditorium* 
and  therefore  seated  herself  beside  the  old  countryman 
with  a  feeling  of  relief. 

She  observed  the  grayish  color  of  his  face  as  he 
looked  around  upon  that  assemblage,  but  there  was 
nothing  particularly  objectionable  in  it  so  far  as  he 
could  see.  There  were  girls  in  beautiful  gowns,  sell* 
ing  flowers  and  programmes.  One  even  attempted  to 
fasten  a  white  carnation  in  his  button-hole,  but  when 
she  saw  him  shrink  away  she  let  him  alone.  But  the 
very  thought  of  being  in  a  theater,  that  palace  of  the 
devil,  was  horrible  to  him.  He  was  trembling  in  every; 
limb,  and  as  he  seated  himself  in  the  luxurious  orches- 
tra chair,  he  tried  to  shrink  as  far  back  as  possible, 
vainly  imagining  that  he  could  hide  himself  from  him- 
self. 

And  then  the  overture  was  rung  in. 

The  clin  of  the  orchestra,  with  the  hum  of  the  voices 


138  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

and  the  heat  of  the  atmosphere,  made  his  head  ache 
more  than  ever,  and  more  than  once  he  would  have 
escaped,  but  that  woman  was  sitting  there  beside  him, 
bolt  upright,  and  he  shrunk  back  as  if  he  were  held 
by  a  force  that  he  had  no  power  on  earth  to  combat. 

After  what  seemed  to  him  an  age,  the  curtain  went 
tip  and  a  woman  with  a  disgustingly  low  corsage  came 
upon  the  stage  to  sing.  It  was  awful  to  the  old  Meth- 
odist, who  had  never  seen  anything  beyond  Burton 
in  his  life,  and  a  groan  left  his  lips.  He  would  not 
look  again,  but  sat  there  with  his  head  bowed  upon  his 
hands,  hating  himself  as  he  had  never  hated  any  living 
being  before. 

Once  or  twice  he  lifted  his  head  as  some  thunderous 
reception  told  him  that  a  new  favorite  had  come  be 
fore  the  audience ;  but  each  time  it  was  dropped  again, 
until  at  last  when  a  girl  made  an  appearance  in  tight* 
to  do  a  contortion  act,  then  he  staggered  to  his  feet. 

"I  can't  stand  it!"  he  cried  hoarsely,  disgust  and 
horror  mingling  in  his  vocie.  "I  can't  stand  it!  It's 
a  burnin'  shame  to  let  them  undressed  women  come 
before  decent  people,  and  I  shan't  never  look  Miranda 
in  the  face  again.  I  am  a-goin' !" 

"Wait!"  she  whispered  in  his  ear.  "Wait.  You? 
'daughter  is  next  upon  the  programme.  You  must  not 
fail  to  see  her?" 

And  once  more,  but  this  time  with  his  chin  fallen, 
his  eyes  wide  in  awful  horror,  Jonathan  Esmonde 
fell  back  in  his  chair — and  waited 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  139 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  orchestra  had  completed  a  prelude  that  ended 

in  a  wild,  fantastic  melody,  and  the  audience  had  burst 

into  an  enthusiastic  applause  that  shook  the  play-house 

jfrom  pit  to  dome.    It  seemed  that  it  would  never  end, 

»and  there,  standing  before  them,  bowing  and  smiling 

in  her  flimsiest  of  gauze  draperies,  stood  Lil — Lil  the 

dancfng-girl,  Lil  the  favorite  of  all  New  York. 

The  costume  she  wore  of  the  Persian  type,  with  pale 
gauze  covering  the  fleshings  upon  her  limbs,  the  part 
of  her  body  over  the  stomach  covered  with  flesh-col- 
ored silk  drawn  so  tight  as  to  resemble  nature's  mold, 
a  spangled  jacket  relieving  her  of  absolute  immodesty, 
a  jacket  that  revealed  the  exquisite  neck  and  shoulders 
in  all  their  dazzling  bodily  splendor. 

To  the  New  Yorker,  accustomed  to  the  stage,  there 
.was  nothing  in  the  attire  beyond  the  ordinary  undress 
of  the  premiere  danseuse,  but  to  old  Jonathan  Es- 
moncle  it  was  something  beyond  all  compare  in  the  line 
of  brazen  shamelessness. 

He  half  staggered  to  his  feet,  but  a  hand  was  placed 
Upon  his  arm,  which  drew  him  back  into  his  seat. 

He  sat  there,  leaning  forward  breathlessly,  watch- 
ing the  changing  smile  upon  her  face — that  beautiful 
face  which  he  had  never  seen  before  under  the  paint 
and  powder  that  adorned  it  now — never  speaking,  but 
white  to  the  lips,  white  and  haggard  as  death  itself. 

He  was  like  one  under  the  influence  of  some  hide- 
ous nightmare,  a  horror  that  holds  one  enthralled 
Under  its  ghastly  spell,  and  from  which  one  has  not 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL' 

the  power  to  free  one's  self,  even  though  the  soul  iu 
choked  and  sickened  by  the  influence. 

Stonily,  dully,  stupidly  he  gazed,  only  half  conscious 
that  she  was  dancing,  only  half  conscious  of  the  shouti 
of  "bravo"  that  rent  the  air  when  some  exceedingly 
difficult  step  was  rendered  with  a  facility  that  bespoke 
the  consummate  artiste,  only  half  conscious  of  the 
thunders  of  applause  and  wild  calls  as  the  orchestra 
ceased ;  but  his  breath  came  at  last  and  he  panted  wild* 
ly,  chokingly,  when  she  had  disappeared  behind  the 
.wings.' 

He  arose  suddenly,  blindly,  and  put  out  his  hand 
gropingly. 

"Let  me  out!"  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "For  God's  sake, 
let  me  out !" 

With  a  smile  of  gratified  revenge. upon  her  heart- 
less face,  the  woman  arose.  She  even  put  her  hand 
upon  the  man's  arm  and  led  him  from  the  building; 
steadying  his  tottering  footsteps  as  he  reached  the  wel- 
come street,  and  stood  there  staring  helplessly  about 
him. 

There  was  an  expression  upon  the  usually  hard  face 
like  that  of  a  lost  child,  a  piteous,  tremulous  look  about1 
the  mouth,  a  frightened  bewilderment  in  the  eyes,  a 
trembling  of  the  lips  and  hands  that  would  have  ap- 
pealed to  one  less  hard  of  heart,  but  not  to  that  wo- 
man! 

She  had  never  learned  the  meaning  of  pity.    There, 
was  one  word  that  formed  the  nucleus  of  her  heart ' 
and  the  central  portion  of  every  thought  that  took 
shape  in  her  brain.     It  was  "Self!"     For  self  alone 
she  cared,  for  self  alone  she  waited  and  watched  and 
worked. 


t-JL.  THE   DANCING-GIRC 

She  smiled  at  him  half  bitterly,  half  sneeringly  as 
.hey  reached  the  corner  of  the  street.  It  was  her  in- 
tention to  abandon  him  then  and  there  in  the  city, 
where  he  was  as  much  a  stranger  and  as  much  at  sea 
as  the  veriest  toddler  would  have  been,  but  she  could 
not  refrain  from  asking  one  question  first. 

"Are  you  convinced  now?  Does  it  require  further 
evidence  to  make  you  understand  the  sort  of  life  your 
daughter  is  leading  ?  Do  you  still  doubt  ?" 

He  shrunk  from  her  as  he  might  have  done  from 
some  poisonous  reptile,  and  covered  his  poor  old  face 
.with  his  hands. 

She  laughed  outright. 

"It  is  a  charming  school  that  your  beautiful  Lillian 
teaches,  is  it  not  ?"  she  sneered. 

But  there  was  more  loyalty  in  the  old  farmer  than 
she  had  counted  upon.  He  threw  down  his  hands 
and  turned  upon  her,  his  lips  quivering  between  an  un- 
controllable shame  and  a  defiance  that  was  even  more 
piteous.  His  eyes  were  blood-shot,  his  face  ghastly 
and  twitching,  as  if  with  physical  anguish. 

"It  ain't  true!'1  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "That  wa'n't 
my  girl!  I  won't  believe  it!  That  couldVt  never  be 
my  Lily,  my  sweet  little  modest  flower!  You've  trick- 
ed me  fur  some  evil  purpose  uv  yer  own,  an'  it's  a  lie! 
I  tell  you,  it's  a  lie !  It  wus  only  some  ?un  that  looked 
like  her,  and  you  brung  me  kere  an'  made  me  believe 
this  foul  lie  fur  seme  reason  uv  yer  own.  God  knows 
1  don't  know  what!  I'm  a-past  knowin'  the  motives 
uv  mean,  selfish  women,  but  that's  what  you  air! 
IWhat's  my  daughter  Lily  to  you.,  that  you  should  try 
to  disgrace  her  with  her  own  old  father?" 
The  fierce  defiance  of  the  tone  seemed  for  a  moment 


143  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

to  stun  the  creature  who  bore  the  name  ot  woman 
She  stood  there  sullenly  staring  at  him,  then  the  old 
sneer  returned  to  her  mouth. 

"Oh,  you  still  doubt?"  she  said,  with  emotion  "I 
thought  the  evidence  of  your  own  eyes  would  con- 
vince you;  but  as  it  seems  you  do  not  wish  to  be  con- 
vinced, I  will  show  you  further." 

She  had  suddenly  recalled  what  Maitland  had  said 
F  the  beautiful  flat  in  the  Belleami,  and,  v 
bohcal  intent,  again  laid  her  hand  upon  the  man1,  arm 
and  directed  his  steps  toward  the  cab,  which 
in  waiting. 

Already  great   numbers  of  people  were   hurrvin- 

rom  the  theater-people  who  had  gone  merelv  fDf  th* 

I-il  dance,  and  who  immc. 

y  aftcr-so  that  the  confusion  upon  the  street 

r  than  it  had  been  in  the  the. 
In  spue  of  his  horror  of  the  woman,  i;  to 

J°nal!  :  e  that  there  was  s-  out 

that  ,mr,  ,  to  do  her  Nvi],      ]k.  f., 

her  meekly  and  entered  the  cab  again. 

ng,  the  im 
sionthatheh;  ^ 

111  that  Shajw  'hat  multitude  of  people 

passed  from  him  as  if  it  had  be.  ,.ffec*  of  a 

<I  to  realize  that  it  could  have  been  : 

'  :u  he  had  had  some  aw fu!  dream 
that  it  wa>  passing. 

The  night  breeze  cooled  his  hot  cheeks.  The  woman 
sat  back  m  her  own  corner  of  the  cab  in  silence.  He 
looked  around,  after  a  time,  to  see  if  she  were  reallv 

re,  and  shuddered  as  he  saw  her,  under  the  street- 
light 


LtL,  THE   DANCI.VG-GIRL'  143 

en  then  it  was  a  dream  to  him.  The  woman 
upon  the  stage  had  ceased  to  bear  any  resemblance 
whatever  to  Lillian.  She,  the  dancer,  was  one  of  those 
painted  creatures  of  the  people  whom  he  had  heani 
great  cities — one  of  those  depraved,  wanton 
things  whose  name  no  man  speaks  without  a  blu^h — 
not  1 

'  aloud — a  hoar?  lant  laugh,  it  is 

true,  and  one  that  he  hushed  because  it  frightened 
him;  then  he  cried  alond: 

;ht  to  make  me  believe  that  creature  to 
be  n  i'-.it  I  ain't  sich  a  fool  as  that — I  ain't 

a  foe  :ft  no  more  like  my  Lily  than  Beelze- 

bub is  like  a  pure  white  angel!    An*  you  almost  made 
e  looked  like  my  girl!— you  almost  made 
me  ' 

The  woman  did  not  reply  to  him.     She  had  not 

tions  to  drive  at  once  to  the 

'ed  to  give  Lillian  time  to  arrive 

there  leforc  her  father's  entrance  to  the  flat,  and  it 

•lie  time  of  their  :  the 

theater  r.  s  to  the  man — then, 

.iftcr  Jonathan  Ksmorulc  had  exclaimed: 
"Lemmc  out  o'  this  thing!    I  tell  you  I  won't  go  no 
I  think  you  air  nt  o'  the  devil,  an*  I 

am  a-gittin'  my  deserts  fur  a-comin'  down  here  on  this 
unlil-gorue  chase.    Lemme  out,  I  sa 

'"  she  had  exclaimed,  authoritatively. 
1  then  she  had  given  the  cab-driver  instructions 
to  go  at  once  to  the  Belleami. 

She  placed  her  hand  again  upon  the  arm  of  the  old 
countryman,  and  almost  forced  him  to  the  door  of  the 
She  spoke  for  a  moment  aside  (o  the  elevator 


(144  LIL>    THE    DANCENG-GIRt; 

boy  who  had  charge  of  the  door ;  then,  with  the  gritty 
smile  still  upon  her  lips,  she  motioned  Jonathan  Es- 
monde  to  follow  her. 

All  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  the  boy  took 
them  to  the  floor  upon  which  Lil's  flat  was  situated« 
and  pointed  out  the  door.  j 

;  With  a  hand  that  trembled  somewhat  from  expec- 
tancy, the  woman  rang  the  bell.  Almost  instantly  the 
door  was  thrown  open.  There  were  never  any  ques- 
tions asked  at  these  informal  Bohemian  gatherings. 
s  The  woman  pushed  Jonathan  Esmonde  inside,  and 
'followed  him.  Intuitively  she  lifted  the  portiere  lead* 
inig  to  the  salon,  in  which  she  heard  the  merry  hum  of 
laughing  voices.  ! 

I  In  the  center  of  the  room  stood  Li!,  her  superb 
throat 'wound  with  a  string  of  magnificent  diamonds, 
her  arms  and  decollete  corsage  ablaze  with  precious 
gems,  her  eyes  brighter  than  any  that  shone  upon  her. 
;  Jonathan  Esmonde's  companion  ground  her  teeth 
for  one  moment,  then  she  took  the  old  man  by  the 
shoulders  and  pushed  him  into  the  room.  | 

He  stood  there  for  one  moment,  dazed,  then  Lil's 
eyes  were  directed  toward  him.  i 

The  color  vanished  from  her  lovely  cheeks,  a  light  (- 
of  horror  took  the  place  of  the  pleasure  in  her  eyes,  • 
and  one  word  left  her  lips : 
I       "Father!" 

There  was  a  ghastly  cry  from  Jonathan  Esmonds 
He  flung  up  his  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  awfu! 
sight,  and  stood  there  for  one  moment  in  stony  silence  • 
then,  lifting  up  bis  voice,  he  cried  out: 

"Good  God !  what  have  I  done  that  such"  a  disgrace 


LIU   THE   DANCING-GIRL'  145 

should  be  reserved  fur  me?    What  have  I  done  that 
I  should  be  the  father  uv  a  thing  like  that?" 


i 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  silence  that  fell  upon  what  had  been  but  a  mo* 
ment  before  a  merry  party,  seemed  almost  tangible 
in  its  terrible  tensity.  Lil  stood  there  like  a  statue, 
the  horror  frozen  into  her  face.  The  wild  blood-shot 
eyes  of  her  father  were  fixed  upon  her  in  shrinking 
loathing. 

And  then  a  sense  of  cringing  shame  came  upon  her. 
She  would  have  covered  herself  from  that  awful  gaze 
if  that  had  been  possible,  but  as  she  glanced  swiftly 
about  her  she  saw  nothing  at  hand  with  which  she 
could  conceal  the  indecency  of  fashionable  undress. 
fcfc  She  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  her  chin 
fcwed  upon  them,  and  took  a  dramatic  step  in  his 
direction,  but  he  waved  her  back  with  a  dignity  that 
was  tragic. 

"You  do  well  to  cover  yer  shameless  nakedness!" 
he  cried  out,  bitterly;  "but  it  does  not  lessen  the  dis- 
grace upon  that  poor  old  trusting  woman  who  bore 
you,  nor  the  man  who  gave  you  life.  I  went  there 
to-night,  to  that  den  of  infamy,  but  I  could  not  believe 
the  evidence  of  my  old  eyes  when  I  saw  you  there  in 
your  wanton  shame.  I  called  the  woman  a  liar  that 
told  me  it  was  my  girl,  the  one  uv  whom  her  father 
wus  so  proud.  I  never  could  a-dreamed  that  it  was 
you  who  lied — that  it  wus  you  who  had  posed  as  ths 
brave  saint  while  she  lived  a  life  of — crime!*'  . 


'  [144  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRC 

boy  who  had  charge  of  the  door ;  then,  with  the  gritty 
smile  still  upon  her  lips,  she  motioned  Jonathan  Es- 
jnonde  to  follow  her. 

All  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  the  boy  toolc 
them  to  the  floor  upon  which  Lil's  flat  was  situated, 
and  pointed  out  the  door.  i 

;  With  a  hand  that  trembled  somewhat  from  expec- 
tancy, the  woman  rang  the  bell.  Almost  instantly  the 
door  was  thrown  open.  There  were  never  any  ques- 
tions asked  at  these  informal  Bohemian  gatherings. 
*  The  woman  pushed  Jonathan  Esmonde  inside,  and 
'followed  him.  Intuitively  she  lifted  the  portiere  lead- 
inig  to  the  salon,  in  which  she  heard  the  merry  hum  of 
laughing  voices. 

;  In  the  center  of  the  room  stood  Li!,  her  superb 
throat  wound  with  a  string  of  magnificent  diamonds, 
her  arms  and  decollete  corsage  ablaze  with  precious 
gems,  her  eyes  brighter  than  any  that  shone  upon  her. 
f  Jonathan  Esmonde's  companion  ground  her  teeth 
lor  one  moment,  then  she  took  the  old  man  by  the 
shoulders  and  pushed  him  into  the  room. 

He  stood  there  for  one  moment,  dazed,  then  Lil's 
eyes  were  directed  toward  him. 

The  color  vanished  from  her  lovely  cheeks,  a  light; 
of  horror  took  the  place  of  the  pleasure  in  her  eyes, ' 
and  one  word  left  her  lips : 

"Father!" 

There  was  a  ghastly  cry  from  Jonathan  Esmonde 
He  flung  up  his  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  awfu! 
sight,  and  stood  there  for  one  moment  in  stony  silence ;, 
then,  lifting  up  Ins  voice,  he  cried  out: 

"Good  God!  what  have  I  done  that  such  a  disgrace 


LIL.   THE   DANCING-GIRL'  145 

should  be  reserved  fur  me?    What  have  I  done  that 
I  should  be  the  father  uv  a  thing  like  that?" 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  silence  that  fell  upon  what  had  been  but  a  mo- 
ment before  a  merry  party,  seemed  almost  tangible 
in  its  terrible  tensity.  Lil  stood  there  like  a  statue, 
the  horror  frozen  into  her  face.  The  wild  blood-shot 
eyes  of  her  father  were  fixed  upon  her  in  shrinking 
loathing. 

And  then  a  sense  of  cringing  shame  came  upon  her. 
She  would  have  covered  herself  from  that  awful  gaze 
if  that  had  been  possible,  but  as  she  glanced  swiftly 
about  her  she  saw  nothing  at  hand  with  which  she 
could  conceal  the  indecency  of  fashionable  undress. 
&  She  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  her  chin 
fcrvved  upon  them,  and  took  a  dramatic  step  in  his 
direction,  but  he  waved  her  back  with  a  dignity  that 
.roas  tragic. 

''You  do  well  to  cover  yer  shameless  nakedness!*' 
he  cried  out,  bitterly;  "but  it  does  not  lessen  the  dis- 
grace upon  that  poor  old  trusting  woman  who  bore 
you,  nor  the  man  who  gave  you  life.  I  went  there 
to-night,  to  that  den  of  infamy,  but  I  could  not  believe 
the  evidence  of  my  old  eyes  when  I  saw  you  there  in 
tour  wanton  shame.  I  called  the  woman  a  liar  that 
told  me  it  was  my  girl,  the  one  uv  whom  her  father 
wus  so  proud.  I  never  could  a-dreamed  that  it  wits 
you  who  lied — that  it  wus  yon  who  had  posed  as  ths 
brave  saint  while  she  lived  a.  life  of — crime!'' 


LIE,  THE   DANCING-GIRL 

"Father!" 

"Never  ag'inP  he  cried,  hoarsely,  throwing  up  hfa 
to  ward  her  from  him.  "Never  ag'in !  I  own  n<* 
daughter  but  the  little  deformed  thing  that  you  stolf 
f rum  me  with  yer  treachery  and  lies.  Never  dare  to 
breathe  the  word.  You  have  no  father,  no  sister,  na 
mother.  You  stand  alone  in  the  world  side  by  side 
wSth  the  fallen  things  of  earth  that  possess  no  being, 
330  soul.  Ye  stand  accursed  among  women,  too  de- 
praved to  touch  the  skirt  even  uv  yer  own  mother,  the 
woman  who  bore  you.  You  wa'n't  satisfied  wi7  yer 
life  o'  shame  an'  infamy,  but  you  must  bring  it  beneath 
my  reef;  and  disgrace  me  in  the  eyes  of  the  people 
!WJK>  have  known  an?  respected  me  all  the  days  uv; 
my  life.  You've  separated  yourself  frum  the  sister 
that  worshiped  ye,  fur  the  sake  oj  them  diamonds  that 
cover  you,  and  that  air  the  brand  o'  shame  upon  yoa. 
lYotrve  shet  yourself  out  from  that  mother  that  cradled 
ye  in  the  very  holler  uv  her  soul,  an'  you've  broke 
yer  ole  father's  heart !" 

His  voice  trembled,  but  as  Li!  would  have  ap- 
proadied  him,  he  again  waved  her  back, 

"No!"  he  cried,  his  voice  rolling  like  thunder  under 
his  excitement.  "Not  a  step-— not  a  step!  I've  got 
nothin'  but  curses  fur  ye.  Nothin7  but  curses  fur  the 
child  that  has  been — bought  with  gold !  Nothin'  but 
curses  fur  the  creature  that  deserts  a  life  uv  upright 
honesty  an*  godliness  for  the  pollution  that  surrounds 
you  now — the  golden  hell  in  which  you  live!" 

And  then  for  the  first  time  a  crimson  streak  of  in- 
dignation flashed  across  LiPs  beautiful  face.  She 
fining  out  her  arms  with  a  magnificent  breadth  of  ges-» 
ture. 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  147} 

'  "It  is  false  i"  she  cried,  in  a  tone  that  matched  his 
own.  "You  are  insulting  your  own  flesh  and  blood 
with  a  lie  that  should  scorch  your  lips  with  flame!'' 

He  pointed  his  finger  at  her  relentlessly,  quivering 
iwith  scorn  and  disgust. 

"Cover  yourself  ag'in !"  he  thundered,  passionate^ 
"If  it  is  only  with  a  hand  that  can  not  conceal  your 
shame.  Don't  stand  there,  forgetful  that  your  father 
as  beneath  your  sin-stained  roof.  Hide  yourself  from 
the  eyes  of  decency.  And  the  curses  uv  yer  own 
father  be  upon  you.  The  curses  uv  the  man  that  gave 
you  life.  The  curses  uv  the  God  you  wus  brought  up 
to  fear  an'  love,  You'll  face  the  shame  you've  brung 
upon  yourself  an'  the  family  that  loved  you,  May 
your  life  wither  an'  perish,  and  drop  frum  ye,  leaf  by 
leaf,  leaving  ye  to  realize  the  thing  you  air,  leaving 
ye  to  see  the  terrible  sin  you  have  committed,  eaten 
to  the  heart  with  bitter  repentance  that  can  bring  no 
expiation.  May  they  all  desert  ye,  these  creatures  that 
you've  sold  yer  soul  fur,  and  may  poverty  an'  beggary 
end  the  life  that  you  colored  black  wi'  iniquity,  May; 
ye  craw!  frum  door  to  door  scourged  with  the  shame 
you've  brung  upon  yourself  and  a  God-fearing  family, 
finding  no  relief  frum  God  nor  man,  afflicted,  homeless, 
alone.  A  father's  curse  upon  ye  furever  an'  furever!" 

For  some  time  those  gathered  there  had  listened  m 
a  sort  of  horrified  silence,  but  as  the  old  man  con- 
tinued, a  low  hum  had  begun  that  gradually  increased, 
until,  as  he  had  finished,  there  was  a  loud  exclamation 
of  terror  from  the  women  and  bitter  indignation  from 
the  men. 

More  than  one  took  a  threatening  step  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  almost  crazed  man ;  but  before  they  could 


,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

reach  him,  he  had  turned,  with  his  hand  uplifted,  and 
tiad  almost  run  from  the  room. 

The  woman  who  had  brought  him  there  disappeared, 
Jjut  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her.  Swiftly,  totter- 
ftigly,  blindly,  he  rushed  toward  the  stairs,  forgetful 
oi  the  elevator  in  which  he  had  come  up,  and  scarcely 
knowing  what  he  did,  he  fled  down  the  stairs  and  out 
Into  the  night. 

Meantime,  the  greatest  confusion  prevailed  in  the 
room  that  he  had  deserted. 

As  the  last  word  of  his  curse  left  his  lips,  Lil  had 
isunk  into  a  heavy  swoon,  from  which  it  seemed  they 
could  never  arouse  her.  A  different  suggestion  was 
made  by  every  one  present ;  voices  of  women  and  men 
jblended  in  calling  down  imprecations  upon  the  head 
iof  the  cruel  father. 

Had  that  scene  occurred  in  the  halls  of  fashion  in 
the  Knickerbocker  world,  there  would  have  been  a 
stampede  of  horrified  women.  They  would  have  turn* 
bled  over  each  other  in  their  efforts  to  reach  the 
street,  anxious  that  no  one  should  know  of  their  pres^ 
,ence  beneath  that  roof,  and  would  have  told  you  on 
the  following  day  that  they  had  never  known  the  per- 
son to  whom  it  had  occurred,  But  not  so  in  the  homes 
of  Bohemia. 

There  was  no  one  present  who  was  not  more  than 
anxious  to  do  all  that  lay  in  their  power  for  the  un- 
happy girl,  and  Chetwynd  was  finally  forced  to  wave 
them  back  from  their  kindly  interference. 

"I  am  sure  she  would  be  better  if  you  would  only 
go!"  he  exclaimed  in  an  inhospitable  way  that  nobody 
misunderstood.  "If  you  will  remain,  Mag,  and  get 


f-JL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  I4QJ 

the  others  out  of  the  house  as  quickly  as  possible,  she 


come  around  all  right." 

Aim  then  the  men  rallied  to  Chetwynd's  assistance, 
getting  the  women  from  the  house  as  quickly  as  was 
possible. 

Philip  Sumner  knelt  for  a  moment  beside  the  un- 
conscious form,  and  with  ghastly  lips  and  haggard 
face  said  in  an  undertone  to  Chetwynd  : 

"At  least  you  will  let  me  remain!"  , 

Chetwynd  placed  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder  not  un- 
kindly. 

"Better  not,"  he  said,  quietly. 

'Tut—  " 

"I  know  !  I  know  !"  the  dancing-master  interrupted. 
"But  it  is  neither  just  to  yourself  nor  to  her." 

"There  is  no  justice  in  the  world,"  answered  Phil, 
sullenly,  rising  to  his  feet.  "Her  life,  her  happiness 
is  more  than  all  the  world  to  me." 

"You  do  not  want  to  make  those  cruel  words  her 
father  spoke  true.  You  are  the  betrothed  husband  of 
another  woman.  And  the  whole  world  knows  it." 

Phil's  head  was  bowed.  There  was  crimson  shame 
in  his  countenance.  He  did  not  reply  directly,  but 
said  huskily  as  he  reached  the  door  : 

"I  shall  send  a  doctor.  For  God's  sake,  let  me 
know  if  anything  should  —  should  happen,  will  you, 
Chetwynd  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  elder  man. 

"You  will  remain  with  Mag?" 
.  "Yes." 

"Then  if  I  send  a  messenger,  you  will  let  me  know; 
how  she  is?" 


'152  ML,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

had  been  compelled  to  hire  a  conveyance  and  drire 
to  another  town.  And  now  to  know  that  his  daught- 
er— his  Lillian — was  like  that  girl !  God  J 

He   was   wandering   about  the   streets,   regardless 
of   direction,   suffering  blindly,   determining  that  he 
would  close  his  heart,  as  well  as  his  life,  to  her  who 
had  proven  herself  so  unworthy,  when  he  was  ac*  ! 
costed  by  a  man  in  uniform.  '  | 

"Look  here,  pardner,  do  you  know  where  you're  | 
goin'?" 

Jonathan  Esmonde  looked  up  in  a  dazed  sort  of 
way.  For  a  moment  he  did  not  reply ;  then  he  stam- 
mered, half  incoherently: 

"I  ain't  a  a-goin5  nowhere." 

''Well,  this  is  about  the  sixth  time  you've  walked 
around  this  block,  and  it  don't  look  right." 

"Who  be  you  ?"  inquired  the  old  countryman,  trem- 
ulously. 

"I'm  an  officer  of  the  police,"  answered  the  man< 
pompously.  "The  first  thing  you  know  a  crook  will 
scent  you  out  as  a  hayseed,  and  you'll  be  a  long  time 
finding  out  anything  else." 

"I — I  don't  think  I — -understand  yon." 

"Ever  been  in  New  York  before  ?" 

"No." 

"Got  any  friends  here?" 

"No." 

"Then  you'd  better  attend  to  whatever  business 
brought  you,  and  git  home  by  the  fastest  lightning, 
express.  The  me-tropolus  ain't  no  hay-mow,  an'  you 
ain't  safe.  Take  my  advice  an*  go  to  whatever  hotel 
you're  a-stopping  at,  or  I'll  have  to  rim  you  in,  ^n* 


LIL,  TH\2   DANCING-GIRL  153 

it  wouldn't  sound  well  to  the  folks  where  you  live  to 
bear  you'd  slept  in  jail  all  night." 

Old  Jonathan  started. 

"In  jail !"  lie  moaned. 

" Yes,  siree ;  in  the  lock-up.  A  less  kind-hearted 
Officer  than  I  am  would  a-done  it  before — arrested 
you  as  a  vagabond ;  but  you  looked  kinder  knocked  up,, 
somehow.  Do  you  know  where  you  air  a-stoppin'  ?" 

"I  ain't  a-stoppin1  nowhere,"  stammered  the  old 
man.  "I  corne  to  this  awful  place  after  my  daughter." 

"Your  daughter?    Where  is  she?" 

Old  Jonathan  hesitated  a  moment;  then  fixing  his 
eyes  on  the  officer  half  pleadingly,  he  said : 

"In  the  New  York  Hospital.  Can  you  tell  me  where 
it  is?" 

"The  New  York  Hospital?  Why,  you  can't  go 
there  to-night.  It's  too  late,  or,  rather,  too  early.  I'll 
tell  you  what;  you  come  with  me.  I'll  take  you  to  a 
place  where  you  can  stay  all  night,  and  you  git  a 
cab  and  drive  there  in  the  morning." 

The  kind-hearted  officer  linked  his  arm  in  that  of  the 
old  man  and  led  him  away  to  a  small  but  respectable 
hotel. 

"Give  the  old  duffer  a  room,"  he  said  to  the  clerk. 
"He's  kinder  off  in  the  upper  register,  I  reckon.  I 
found  him  wandernY  about  the  streets,  and  brought 
him  here  instead  of  runnin'  him  in." 

But  Jonathan  Esmonde  did  not  sleep  that  night.  All 
night  he  sat  by  the  window  of  his  little  room,  thinking 
vaguely.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  life  lay  along  the 
idge  of  a  precipice  down  which  he  dared  not  look. 
A  grim  memory  of  his  wife  came  to  him,  and  of  Amy. 
When  he  got  out  of  his  chair.  Ion?  after  the  warm 


154  LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL 

morning  sun  was  streaming  into  the  window,  he  Ye* 
membered  the  policeman's  words,  and  going  down- 
stairs, he  paid  his  bill  and  ordered  a  cab. 

He  had  not  eaten.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  morsel 
of  food  would  have  choked  him,  and  yet  he  was  so 
faint  from  his  long  fast  that  he  could  scarcely  stand, 
He  drove  at  once  to  the  New  York  Hospital. 

He  asked  for  Amy  Esmonde,  and  was  taken  to  he? 
room  when  he  gave  the  information  that  he  was  her 
father. 

She  looked  up  in  almost  irrepressible  surprise  as  he 
stood  before  her.  There  was  no  smile  upon  his  grim, 
cold,  gray  face;  but  he  went  up  to  her  quietly,  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  her  head. 

"What  is  it?"  she  gasped.    "Is  mother— ill ?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  hoarsely.  "1  have  come  to  take 
you  home — that  is  all." 

"Home !"  she  cried,  starting  up  and  looking  at  him 
out  of  wide,  frightened  eyes.  "Why,  what  do  you 
mean?" 

"There  ain't  nothin*  hard  to  understand  about  that," 
he  returned,  grimly.  "I  have  come  to  take  you 
home." 

"You  can't  mean  it !"  she  cried,  heavily.  "You  can't 
mean  it !  Why,  the  doctors  tell  me  there  is  a  chance 
for  my  recovery !  They  tell  me  that  I  may  walk  again, 
[Why  should  I  go  home?  Where  is  Lillian?" 

The  old  man's  face  darkened. 

"Never  mention  that  name  to  me  again!"  he  ex- 
claimed, hoarsely.  "I  have  no  daughter  now  but  you. 
I  trusted  her,  an'  she  has  deceived  me.  She  has  dis- 
graced the  old  mother  that  worked  and  slaved  all  her 
life  that  your  sister  might  be  spared.  Never  speak 


LH,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

that  name  to  me  again?  It  was  all  this  hatefui  city 
that  done  it.  She  was  a  good  girl  until  she  came  here/' 
:id  she  is  a  good  girl  now!"  cried  Amy  passion- 
ately. ''She  has  never  disgraced  any  one,  and  I  would 
not  believe  an  angel  from  heaven  that  spoke  ill  of 
her!  What  has  she  do: 

Fcr  a  moment  Jonathan  Esmonde  hesitated;  then, 
seeing  something  of  the  womanhood  that  would  not  be 
denied  in  the  small,  uplifted  face,  he  bent  toward  A.my, 
and  his  voice  was  nothing  more  than  a  whisper  as  he 
said: 

"I  saw  her  last  night  covered  with  the  diamonds 
that  wus  bought  with  shame.  She  don't  teach  school, 
as  she  made  us  poor  fools  believe,  but  lives  in  a  golden 
3  that  the  devil  finch  fur  them  that  serve  him. 
She  ain't  fit  to  speak  the  name  uv  a  decent  person,  anJ 
hers  must  never  leave  your  lips  ag 

4'I  won't  believe  it!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  desperately. 
-  Jonathan  Esmonds  raised  himself  and  crossed  Ir.j 
hands  upon  his  bosom. 

"Your  father  has  never  spoken  a  lie  In  his  lire/'  he 
answered,  stonily.  "I  tell  you  that  I  saw! — I  sav/  her 
surrounded  with  her  infamy,  I  saw  her  clothed  as  :t 
would  become  only  the  lowest  of  the  low  to  be  dressed 
There  must  be  no  question  between  you  an'  me.  I 
And  spoke  to  her — fur  the  last  time  in-  this  life.  An* 
now  you  must  come  wi'  me." 

•id  leave  the  only  hope  of  my  life  behind"" 
'Amy,  passionately.     "Go  when  those  who  know 

hat  I  may  be  cured?    Go  back  to  the  old,  hateful 
life  of  suffering  and  toil  and  humiliation?     Go  back 
to  the  hopelessness  of  hell?    I  can't!  I  can't! 
1  never  demand  it  of  me!" 


1-1L,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

The  old  man  leaned  forward  once  more.  This  tim* 
he  placed  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  with  a  heaviness 
that  hurt  her. 

41  You  will  come!"  he  exclaimed,  hoarsely.  "You 
aiT  my  child ;  you  air  not  uv  my  age.  Do  ye  think  I'll 
abandon  ye  to  these  wolves  that  have  eaten  all  the 
purity  from  her  soul?  Do  ye  think  I'll  leave  ye  to  be- 
come the  thing  she  is?  Shall  I  go  back  to  the  poor 
old  mother  a  childless  man?  You'll  go,  if  I  must  take 
ye  in  my  arms  an*  carry  ye  every  step  uv  the  way! 
.You'll  go,  if  I  have  to  take  you — dead !" 

Ke  looked  down  into  the  white,  despairing  face ;  but 
even  after  he  had  looked,  and  understood,  too,  in  his 
own  way,  there  was  no  relenting  in  his  own.  He 

v,  mumbling  a>  he  <1M  so: 
,'  rather  have  ye  as  ye  are,  the  poor,  lame,  halt- 
i)g  thing,  than  the  beauty  I  wus  proud  uv  in  her!    It 
ncnt  uv  my  pride,  I  reckon — the  punish- 
:  fur  my  pride!" 

riot  speak.      The    stony  despair    never 
,:ed  when  she  heard  the  doctors  of  the  hospital 
:.g  her  father  to  allow  her  to  remain,  because  she 
v  what  his  answer  would  be.     And  they  looked 
into  her  face  as  she  left  the  hospital  with  the  cold, 
grim  man,  with  the  expression  of  death  upon  her,  feel- 
ing that  he  a!one  would  be  answerable  for  her  life. 

"The  hard,  cruel  old  fool  will  regret  it,"  one  of  the 
doctors  said,  as  the  cab  drove  away.  "She  will  either 
die  or  go  mad.  I  never  saw  such  a  look  in  any  eyes 
in  my  life.  Poor  child — poor  little  child!  And  there 
was  a  chance  for  her,  too !  There  would  always  have 
been  a  deformity,  but  nothing  to  what  it  is  now.  Upon 


;IRL  157 

v  soul,  there  should  be  a  law  compelling  fathers  1 
that  to  give  up  their  childrc 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

e  opening   for  August    t\\  had   Deen 

oned  because  of  the  illness  .T  attra, 

for  Li!  by  for  weeks  at  the  very  door  of  death,  \ 
'during  which  she  was  as  tenderly  watched  and  guarded 
by  Chctwynd  as  if  he  had  been  her  mother  instead  of 
simply  a  well-liked 

There  was  a  m:r>c  for  the  night  and  a  nurse  for  the 
but  there  never  seemed  an  hour  of  either  time 
that  Chetwynd  was  not  conscious  of  all  that  was  oc- 
.e  sick-room.    He  slept,  if  he  slept  at  all, 
upon  h  drawn  up  before  the  door  that  led  from 

her  boudoir  to  t  ig-room,  and  tht  •  -.ever 

a  moment  when  he  was  not  the  sound  or 

:e. 

He  listened  to  1  gs  of  mother  and  home  until 

he  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  and  one  day,  in  dcspera- 
:         he  rat  doxvn  and  wrote  her  father  of  her  da: 
begging  :ne  of  Chr 

ty  to  come  to  the  suffering  one ;  or,  if  he  could 
not  do  so  himself,  to  send  the  mother  of  the  unfortu- 
nate girl.  But  the  letter  was  returned  to  him,  with  a 
line  at  the  bottom  in  Jonathan  :e's  cold, 

chirography,  stating: 

liave  no  \vi=h  to  hear  again  from  the 
'  longer  my  daughter,  uii 
her 


iI-58  LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

And  Chetwynd  had  burned  that,  lest  at  some  time, 
upon  her  recovery,  Lil  might  discover  the  cruel  thing.  • 

But  there  was  another  besides  Chetwynd  who  haunt- 
ed the  premises  of  the  Belleami  apartments.  It  was 
Philip  Sumner.  And  between  the  two  men  a  friend- 
ship had  sprung  up  that  was  really  remarkable  between 
men  who  love  the  same  woman.  In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  Chetwynd  knew  of  LiFs  preference,  there  war. 
never  a  twinge  of  jealousy  in  his  feeling  toward  Philip, 
On  the  contrary,  it  seemed  to  draw  the  young  man 
closer  to  him;  and  the  old  dancing-master's  devotion 
to  Lil  won  a  regard  from  Philip  such  as  he  had  felt 
toward  few  men  in  the  course  of  his  life. 

Tacitly  he  had  professed  his  love  for  Lil  to  Chet- 
wynd in  a  thousand  ways ;  but  not  one  word  had  been 
uttered  upon  the  subject  that  would  be  an  insult  to  Lil 
or  to  his  betrothed  wife. 

For  this  illness  of  Lil  had  made  a  different  man  of 
Phil.  He  was  again  the  pure-hearted,  honest  man 
that  he  had  been  in  those  first  days  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, and  from  which  he  had  never  wandered  but 
once.  It  had  saved  him ;  for  while  he  could  not  con- 
trol his  heart,  while  he  could  not  force  himself  to  lave 
where  love  was  unwilling,  he  had  resolved  to  do  his 
duty.  He  told  himself  that  as  soon  as  Lil  was  beyond 
danger  of  death,  he  would  return  to  the  side  of  the 
woman  to  whom  duty  bound  him,  and  that  he  would 
never  voluntarily  see  Lil  again. 

He  had  learned  to  know  her  as  she  really  was  in 
those  days,  from  Chetwynd,  her  constant  companion, 
who  believed  that  not  an  angel  in  heaven  was  purer 
than  she ;  a»d  Phil,  knowing  her  love  for  him,  deter- 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRt.  159 

mined  that  he  would  attempt  to  place  no  temptation  in 
her  way. 

l.f  loved  to  think  of  her  as  pure.    He  wanted  her 

main  a  sweet  and  tender  memory  to  him,  sur- 

led  with  the  halo  of  chastity.    He  blushed  as  he 

remembered  the  thoughts  that  had  disgraced  his  man- 

boo!,  upon  the  evening  that  his  mother  had  told  him 

of  the  error  of  his  father,  and  what  had  followed  it* 

He  would  see  Lil  but  once  after  her  recovery,  he 
told  himself,  and  then  only  to  most  humbly  beg  her 
,n  for  the  wrong  that  he  had  done  her  in 
.i;"ht. 

That  was  the  plan  that  he  had  laid  out  for  himself; 
but  courage  is  so  much  stronger  when  temptation  is 
in  the  dim  perspective. 

Lil  was  convalescing. 

From  the  first  moment  of  the  return  of  reason  she 
had  never  spoken  her  mother's  name,  never  made  a 
reference  to  those  old  days  that  she  had  loved  to  talk 
of  to  Chetwynd.  She  seemed  so  changed  that  his 
tender  heart  ached  as  he  looked  at  her.  She  was  so 
te,  so  silent,  so  listless.  She  would  sit  in  the  chair 
beside  the  window  where  the  nurse  placed  her  and 
look  out  into  the  street,  apparently  without  the  move- 
ment of  a  muscle,  her  great  dark  eyes  larger  and 
darker  than  ever,  her  lovely  color  all  vanished,  and 
yet  more  beautiful,  more  spiriUielle,  than  she  had  ever 
been  before,  with  the  short,  clustering  curls  of  auburn 
hair  lying  in  fascinating  disorder  about  her  white 
brow. 

When  a  message  came,  or  fruit  or  flowers,  from  any 
admirer,  she  would  turn  her  head  and  smile  faintly; 
but  there  was  no  other  recognition  of  the  efforts  mat 


il6o  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

Were  made  in  her  behalf,  not  a  word  of  the  future,  not 
an  inquiry  concerning  any  friend,  not  a  syllable  con- 
cerning the  past— nothing  but  silence. 

After  a  time  Chetwynd  grew  alarmed.  He  spoke  to 
the  doctor  on  the  subject,  and  the  medical  man  looked 
concerned. 

t  "She  needs  something  to  arouse  her,"  he  said  witfi 
decision.  "It  is  only  to  her  superb  constitution  that 
we  owe  her  life.  It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  she  is 
trying  to  get  well.  I  really  think  she  is  disappointed 
that  she  has  pulled  through.  If  we  could  only  invent 
something  to  drag  her  out  of  this  lethargy,  it  might 
save  her." 

j  It  was  that  same  evening,  when  Philip  Suniner 
tailed,  that  Chetwynd  repeated  the  conversation  to 
him. 

(     "Do  you  know,  Sumner,"  he  said,  earnestly,  when 
he  had  finished  the  doctor's  words,  "I  have  thought  of 
everything  possible,  and  there  seems  but  one  way/'   , 
"What  is  that?"' 
**You  must  go  to  her." 
"I  ?" 

"Yes.  Pardon  me,  but  this  is  no  time  for  conceal- 
ments, old  fellow.  I  know  your  secret  as  well  as  you 
probably  know  mine.  There  is  no  need  that  we  should 
speak  to  each  other  upon  a  subject  that  can  only  bring 
pain  and  embarrassment  to  both  of  us;  but  I  believe 
that  it  would  do  her  good  if  you  were  to  see  her.  She 
would  refuse  if  you  were  to  ask  permission  to  call, 
but  you  must  go  in  without  permission.  I  will  ar- 
range it  if  you  agree." 

"Agree?  I  would  give  my  life  for  her  if  it  would 
save  her  suffering!  But — I  am  bound  by  something1 


LIL,  THE   EANCING-GIKL  l6l 

stronger  than  a  mere  promise,  stronger  than  a  mere 
betrothal.  I  can  trust  you.  Chetwynd.  You  have 
guessed  right  in  supposing  that  I  love  her.  I  have 
[been  a  scoundrel  in  the  past,  but  it  was  misery  that 
(made  me  so,  and  I  see  it  all  clearly  enough  now.  to 
[want  to  be  a  man  again.  I  tell  you  that  I  am  bound 
i>y  a  secret  that  I  cannot  betray,  but  that  is  stronger 
than  life  or  death.  Now  I  will  leave  it  to  you  to  de- 
side;  is  it  for  the  better  or  wor-e  that  I  should  see 
her?" 

He  was  white  to  the  lips.     Chetwynd  saw  readily 
enough  in  which  direction  inclination  lay.     He  1 
that  Philip  Sumner  was  breathless  with  suspense,  with 
hope  of  seeing  her;  but  it  was  not  of  the  man  that 
Chetwynd  thought ;  it  was  of  Lil. 

He  hesitated  for  a  long  time,  but  turned  and  put  out 
his  hand  to  Phil  at  last. 

"We  must  trust  to  God  for  the  future,"  he  said, 
hoarsely,  "and  take  advantage  of  the  only  opportunity 
that  the  present  offers.    Go  to  her.    I  trust  to  your 
discretion  to  do  what  is  best ;  but  remember  that  her 
life  or  reason  depends  upon  you.     When  strength  is 
•  restored,  then  will  be  t".me  to  think  of  the  future." 
|      And  so  poor  Philip's  resolutions  were  set  at  naught. 
I      She  was  sitting  beside  the  window,  in  the  old  list- 
i  less  \vay.  upon  the  first  occasion  that  Philip  saw  her 
after  the  terrible  illness.    No  one  had  announced  him, 
jnd  he  had  time  to  observe  her  before  he  went  for- 
ward.   He  noted  the  little  folded  hands,  almost  trans- 
parent^  with  the  pretty  blue  veins  marking  their  v 
surface;  the  colorless  face  shadowed  by  great,  dark- 
orcled  eyes;  the  lovely  short,  curling  hair,  so  different 
the  heavy  masses  of  the  old  days,    She  was  like 


162  LIL,    1HE    DAJICING-GIRL 

a  small,  suffering  child  now,  and  his  heart  ached  as 
he  observed  iu  3  pathetic  droop  of  the  mouth,  the  utter 
weariness  and  silent  dejection  of  the  attitude. 

A"  sigh  that  was  almost  a  sob  escaped  him,  and  she 
heard  it  in  the  dense  stillness  of  the  room. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  closed  her  eyes. 
*The  faintest  shadow  of  a  ghastly  smile  played  about 
her  lips, 

"Poor  old  Chet!"  she  said,  faintly.  "I  wonder  if 
ever  a  father  was  so  devoted  to  his  sick  baby  as  you 
are  to  me  ?" 

Philip  Sumner  could  have  cried  out.  The  voice  was 
even  more  changed  than  her  personal  appearance.  It 
was  so  tired,  so  utterly  tired! 

It  seemed  to  him  almost  as  if  he  were  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  dead. 

He  walked  lightly  toward  her,  so  lightly  that  even 
in  that  stillness  she  did  not  hear  him  nor  know  of  his 
approach,  until  she  felt  an  arm  steal  about  her  waist, 
and  heard  a  voice  whisper  in  her  ear : 

"Lil!  my  pure  white  lily!  my  darling!" 

There  were  suppressed  tears  in  the  voice—that  voice 
which  she  loved  so  well.  j 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  down  upon  him,  ' 
not  startled,  but — happy.    Then  she  let  her  hand,  light 
as  a  snow-flake,  rest  upon  his  head. 

"I  believe  if  I  were  dead, 

And  you  upon  my  lifeless  heart  should  tread, 
Not  knowing  what  the  poor  clod  chanced  to  be, 

It  would  find  sudden  thrill  beneath  the  touch 

Of  him  it  ever  loved  in  life  so  much, 

And  throb  again,  warm,  tender,  true  to  theel" 

She  did  not  repeat  the  words,  but  some  such  thougfft 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRt 

gently  rippled  through  her  soul  and  reached  him  in 
the  smile  upon  her  lips. 

Under  the  light  of  God?s  eye,  called  love,  he  lifted 
himself  and  kissed  her  upon  the  lips — he,  the  betrothed 
husband  of  another ;  and  yet  it  was  as  stainless  as  an 
altar-cloth,  as  pure  as  a  child's  dream  of  heaven. 

It  was  the  benediction  of  love,  th*  triumph  of  chas- 
tity, and  yet  turned  to  pollution  in  fcfce  hands  of  the 
arch-fiend,  the  incarnate  devil. 

For  Kirk  Maitland  saw ! 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

'A  handsome  man  with  shadowed  blue  eyes  and 
silvery  hair  leaned  against  the  casement  of  the  win- 
dow, looking  from  the  Manhattan  Club  into  Fifth 
Avenue.  He  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  either  sur- 
roundings or  occupation,  but  gnawed  his  mustache  in 
deep  thought,  starting  violently  as  a  hand  was  laid 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"I've  spoken  your  name  three  distinct  times,  Mr. 
Sumner!"  a  laughing  voice  exclaimed.  "Is  the  at- 
traction upon  the  avenue  unusual  to-day?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Maitland;  I  didn't  hear  you. 
Is  it  anything  special  ?" 

"Only  that  the  boys  want  you  for  a  fourth  at  whist 
if  you  feel  inclined/' 

"Excuse  me  to-day,  won't  you  ?  I  don't  feel  up  to 
the  mental  exertion.  Between  the  humidity  and  heat 
J  am  completely  knocked  out." 

•It's  rather  a  relief  to 'me,  .to  tell  you  tiie  truth," 


LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

said  Maitland,  languidly.     "I  only  consented  at  tlie 
earnest  solicitation  of  some  of  the  fellows,  and  am 
glad  we  can't  find  a  fourth.    Beastly  weather,  isn't  it  ?" 
"Yes,  and  no  promise  of  a  change." 
"I  wonder  you  stay  in  the  city,"  exclaimed  Mait- 
land, sympathetically.     "Cool  weather  can  always  be 
found  if  a  man  will  only  go  around  the  world  in  seared 
Of  it." 

|  "But  what  will  his  business  be  when  he  return^ 
'iwhen  times  are  in  their  present  state?  I  tell  you  these 
are  times  that  rack  men's  souls  as  well  as  intellectual 
capabilities.  Everybody  is  failing.  The  amount  oi" 
gold  being  shipped  out  of  the  country  is  ruinous*. 
If  the  Silver  lav/  is  not  repealed  within  a  fortnight, 
God  help  the  country ;  and  I  haven't  much  faith  myself 
that  even  that  will  bring  any  very  material  change, 
fThese  are  days  when  a  fellow  must  brace  up  and  fac$ 
the  thermometer  as  well  as  the  financial  crisis." 
i  "I  hope  your  house  is  in  no  danger." 

""No  more  than  the  rest;  but  the  whole  country  is 
in  clanger.    Who  would  have  thought  of  the  Mitchell 
iBank  of  Milwaukee  going  under  ?    The  Baring  Broth- 
er's was  no  greater  surprise.     But  it  isn't  the  banks 
alone ;  it  is  everything.    All  the  mercantile  businesses 
are  in  the  balance  and  nothing  promises  to  hold  its  < 
own.     Men  have  got  into  a  panic  and  are  locking  up ; 
their  money  in  safe-deposit  vaults  instead  of  comitig* 
to  the  rescue  of  their  country.    There  is  no  class  that 
tt'ill  escape." 

M  **Ahl  you  are  a  pessimist.  I  grant  you  it  is  bad; 
but  as  soon  as  the  Silver  law  is  repealed  we  shall 
bave  good  times  again.  You  have  devoted  yourself 
loo  much  to  business  this  sumoa^  m&  need  change. 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  l€$ 

iWhy  don't  you  go  down  and  bear  the  market  for  a 
time  as  an  excitement;  or,  better  still,  get  out  of  it 
altogether  for  a  while?  I  am  going  to  advise  Phil 
4o  take  you  out  of  town  for  a  month." 

Halford  Stimners  eyes  darkened.    He  glanced  away; 

.from  Maitland  toward  the  street  again  before  replying. 

I     "1  have  scarcely  seen  Phil  for  a  month  past.    Fact 

^s,  I  have  not  had  an  opportunity  to  congratulate  him 

since  the  announcement  of  his  engagement.    He  break- 

iasts  in  his  room,  either  before  or  after  I  go  in  the 

morning,  and  is  never  at  home  to  dinner." 

"Then  you  have  not  seen  him?" 

"Only  at  the  office  in  presence  of  the  clerks,  and  not 
even  of  that." 

"Ah !  then  you  hare  seen  him." 

"Why  ?    Is  there  anything  special  ?" 

"No ;  only  it  seems  to  me  that  Phil  is  not  looking  as 
as  usual.  He  is  pale,  rather  distrait,  and  while 
siaying  a  word  for  you  in  my  advice  about  going 
abroad  I  was  also  saying  one  for  Phil.  I  really  think 
lie  needs  change  of  air." 

"He  will  undoubtedly  take  it  on  his  honey-moon?" 

"I  had  forgotten  that ;  one  necessarily  does  in  think- 
ing of  Phil." 

Halford  Sumner  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"I  don't  see  the  connection!"  he  exclaimed  rather 
curtly.  "Why  should  not  Phil  marry?" 

"He  should.  I  really  think  it  will  be  the  best  thing 
that  could  happen  to  him." 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  follow  you." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  between  tHe  two> 
men.  Maitland  stood  there  staring  out  of  the  window 
as  if  he  were  thinking  deeply,  pulling  at  his  mustacha 


166  LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

almost  fiercely,  then  turned  again  to  Mr.  Stunner  sud- 
denly. 

"I  wish/'  he  said  in  a  husky-sort  of  tone,  "that  I 
dared  say  something  to  you  without  fear  of  miscon- 
struction, Mr.  Simmer." 

The  banker  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"You  may,"  he  said,  laconically. 

Again  Maitland  hesitated,  but  only  momentarily, 
then  continued,  swiftly: 

"I  don't  pledge  you  to  any  secrecy  in  what  I  shall 
tell  you ;  but  I  wish,  before  speaking  my  name  in  con- 
nection with  it,  that  you  would  remember  that  Phil 
and  I  have  been  friends  since  our  boyhood,  and  that  it 
would  be  most  painful  to  me  to  have  anything  inter- 
rupt that  friendship.  I  know  that  he  would  resent  my 
telling  you  as  the  most  unwarranted  interference  on 
my  part;  but,  upon  my  soul,  it  is  the  only  hope  I  see 
of  saving  him/' 

"Go  on.  I  confess  you  alarm  me ;  but  you  may  trust 
me." 

"A  man's  own  family,  you  know,  Mr.  Sumner,  is 
the  last  on  earth  to  hear  detrimental  rumors  concern- 
ing him." 

"And  there  are  such  concerning  Phil  ?" 

"In  one  way.  His  marriage  has  been  announced, 
yet  his  attentions  to— well,  to  another  lady  are  causing 
the  most  unpleasant  rumors — rumors  which  I  am  sure 
would  be  most  distasteful  to  Miss  Langford  should 
they  come  to  her  ears,  as  they  most  certainly  will  if 
something  is  not  done  to  check  Phil." 

"I  can  scarcely  credit  what  you  tell  me.  Is  there 
any  foundation  for  these  rumors?51 

"I  regret  to  say  there  is." 


UL,   THE  DANCING-GIRL  l6/ 

"May  I  ask  who  the  young  lady  is  to  whom  he  is 
devoting  himself?" 

"I  had  rather  not  answer,  if  you  will  excuse  me." 
'But  I  must  entreat  of  you  to  do  so.    If  you  refuse, 
1  shall  only  be  forced  to  seek  my  information  else- 
where, a  thing  which  in  itself  might  cause  increased 
comment." 

'Then,  sir,  I  beg  that  you  will  understand  that  I  do 
it  only  for  Phil's  own  sake.  The  young  woman  is  a 
yery  beautiful  girl  whose  name  is  upon  the  tongue  of 
half  the  men  in  New  York — a  charming  girl  to  whom 
many  are  devoted ;  but  one  does  not  expect  such  open 
adulation  paid  to  another  girl  from  a  man  so  recently, 
betrothed." 

"You  have  still  not  told  me  her  name." 

"She  is  a  Miss  Lillian  Esmonde." 

''Lillian  Esmonde — Lillian  Esmonde?  Have  I  aot- 
heard  the  name  before?  Is  she  an  actress?" 

"You  very  likely  saw  an  article  in  the  papers  not 
long  ago,  a  sensational  affair  about  an  old  countryman 
who  came  to  New  York  in  search  of  his  daughter,  and 
found  her  dancing  for  her  living.  He  went  to  litr 
feouse,  cursed  her  for  the  life  she  was  leading,  forb*d 
her  ever  seeing  her  mother  or  sister  again,  and  left 
her  in  a  most  dramatic  way,  fainting.  She  was  takes* 
with  brain  fever,  and  is  only  just  recovering," 

"And  she  is—" 

"Lillian  Esmonde — Lil,  the  dancing-girl." 

" And  Phil  is  attentive  to  that  girl  ?" 

"Not  only  attentive,  devoted.  He  alone  of  all  frer 
admirers  has  been  admitted  to  her  chamber  during  her 
convalescence;  and  I  assure  you,  sir,  that  I  do  not 
exaggerate  when  I  tell  you  that  he  has  haunted  the 


.'il68'  LIL,   THE    DANCLNG-GIRL 

house  during  her  illness,  so  much  that  several  com* 
rnents  have  been  made  in  the  papers  without  the  men* 
tion  of  nanics." 

"I  can  scarcely  credit  it." 

"And  yet  It  is  true,    I  give  you  my  word  that  I  saw 
him  myself  yesterday  with  his  arms  about  the  young 
Woman's  waist,  kissing  her." 
•,     "You  ?    Then  she  is  a  friend  of  yours  ?" 

"Pourquoi  pas?"  asked  Maitland,  shrugging  his 
Shoulders  indifferently.  "An  unengaged  bachelor's 
friends  are  not  always  those  that  a  married  man  should 
choose.  Lil  is  a  nice  girl,  a  charming  girl,  and  I 
should  be  the  last  one  to  find  fault  if  Phil  were  free. 
On  the  contrary,  I  should  think  he  could  find  no  more 
beautiful  wife  than  Lil  —  " 
f  "A  dancing-girl!"  interrupted  Halford  Sumner, 


"Even  though  she  is  a  'dancing-girl,"  asserted  Mait- 
land, positively.  "But  Phil  is  not  free,  His  betrothal 
ss  announced,  and  his  attentions  to  Lil  are  not  only; 
compromising  his  honor  but  her  reputation.  It  is  just: 
neither  to  one  nor  to  the  other/* 

"I  see*    I  appreciate  what  you  have  said,  Maitland 
»—  f  pom  my  soul  I  do,    Don't  think  that  I  shall  betray-  * 
you  in  any  way  to  Phil.    On  the  contrary,  if,  as  you! 
f\iy,  these  rumors  are  public  gossip,  then  there  is  no  -1 
reason  why  he  should  not  think  that  I  have  heard 
them  from  more  than  one.  I  appreciate  the  friendship 
that  has  made  you  risk  so  much  in  telling  me  those 
things,  as  it  might  have  been  most  unpleasant  if  such 
chatter  had  reached  Miss  Langford.     Phil  must  be 
made  to  see  the  folly  of  his  course  at  once/' 

"I  hope  you  may  succeed/' 


LIL,  THE  DAXCING-GIRL  l6g 

"I  must  succeed." 

"It  is  a  strong  attachment  and  will  require  care-* 
ful  handling." 

"I  shall  take  good  care  of  that.  Thank  you  again, 
and  good-night." 

"Goo<!-night,  sir/' 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  Halford  Sumner 
left  the  club.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  face  his  friends 
that  evening1,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  knew  he 
should  not  find  his  wife  at  home,  he  went  there  and 
sat  down  in  the  darkness  before  the  window. 

"Who  would  ever  have  thought  that  Phil,  of  all 
boys  in  the  world,  should  ever  cause  me  trouble  like 
this?"'1  he  mused,  locking  with  pained  eyes  out  into  the 
lighted  street.  "But,  thank  God,  the  little  mother  does 
not  know.  It  would  kill  hen  I  have  been  able  to 
keep  it  from  her.  I  am  afraid  she  has  not  thought 
so  well  of  me  as  she  might,  but  I  had  rather  it  had 
been  me  than  Phil,  her  boy,  her  idol.  Hark!  Isn't 
that  his  footstep?" 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"Phil!" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Will  you  come  in  here  for  a  moment?" 

The  voice,  not  quite  in  its  usual  tone,  and  coming* 
as  it  did  from  a  dark  room,  was  rather  startling  for 
a  moment,  but  Phil  recovered  himself  at  once.  He 
hesitated,  then  with  a  gesture  of  deprecation  he  threw 
his  hat  aside  and  entered  the  room  where  his  father 


LIL,   THE  .DANCING-GIRL. 

still  sat  beside  the  window.  Ke  could  not  quite  eont«$- 
the  expression  of  repulsion  that  shadowed  his  cous* 
tenance,  but  the  room  was  so  dark  that  expressions  di<§ 
not  matter  much. 

"Where  is  mother?"  he  asked,  quietly, 

"Spending  the  evening  with  your  aunt  Fulda.  I 
am  to  call  for  her  at  eleven." 

"And  you  are  spending  the  time  until  that  hour  in  a 
darkened  room?  Isn't  that  rather  unlike  you,  and 
more  on  the  order  of  a  sentimental  girl  ?" 

There  was  an  effort  at.. lightness  in  the  tone,  but  it 
^was  not  particularly  successful  Mr.  Sumner,  Sr. 
moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"It  is . unusual,"  he  said,  after  a  little  pause;  "but -I 
am  in  rather  an  unusual  humor  this  evening,  I  haven't. 
had  an  opportunity  to  congratulate  you  upon  your,  en- 
gagement, Phil,  and  your  marriage  is  less  than  a 
month  off.  But  you  know  that  I  wish  you  every  hap-. 
piness,  my  boy." 

The  young  man  drew  himself  up  stiffly. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  icily.  "If  will  excuse  me 
now,  father,  I  think—" 

"Unless  it  is  something  very  important,  I  wish  you 
would  stay,"  Mr.  Sumner  interrupted.  "There  are 
several  things  that  I  want  ta  say  to  you,  and  I  can 
find  no  better  time  than  the  present.  I  want  to  ask 
you  something  about  your  plans  for -the  future  and 
about  your  financial  condition.  And  there  are  other 
things,  also.  Where  are  you  going  upon  your  brida! 
tour?" 

"It  is  a  subject  that  I  have. given. no. consideration 
whatever!"  exclaimed  Philip,  haughtily. 

Mr.  Sumner  looked  in  surprise  in  his  son's  xjirection. 


LIL,  THE' DANCING-GIRL  IJt 

"That  is  a  peculiar  statement  for  a  prospective 
bridegroom  to  make,  is  it  not?"  he  demanded,  a  littler 
curiously.  "Usually  such  arrangements  are  thought 
out  as  soon  as  the  lady's  consent  is  obtained." 

Phil  was  leaning  uneasily  against  the  corner  of  the 
mantle-shelf,  looking  down  in  the  darkness  to  whic!; 
his  eyes  had  grown  somewhat  accustomed,  He  flushed 
angrily  and  threw  a  look  of  withering  contempt  at  the 
tnan  beside  the  window,  then  answered  in  a  tone  from 
(which  he  could  not  eradicate  the  savage  unrest. 

"It  might  be  peculiar  coming  from  a  willing  bride- 
groom, but  not  from  one  whose  marriage  is  forced 
upon  him !" 

•Thar 

Mr.  Sumner  arose  suddenly  and  faced  his  son  in  the 
darkness,  an  angry  flush  mounting  to  his  brow  also. 

'The  remark  you  have  made  would  never  have  left 
the  lips  of  an  honorable  man,  no  matter  how  unwilling 
a  partner  he  may  be  to  a  transaction  where  a  lady  L= 
concerned.  I  would  not  have  believed  it  of  my  son, 
in  spite  of  the  past,  in  spite  of  the  rumors  which  I 
have  heard  at  the  club  concerning  you." 

"May  I  ask  to  what  you  refer?" 

"To  the  stories  of  your  infatuation  for  a  dancer,  a 
girl  whom  the  world  calls  'Lil,'  and  with  whom  your 
.  tiarne  is  intimately  associated  upon  the  very  eve  of 
your  marriage.  You  are  making  a  common  scandal — 
bringing  shame  upon  yourself  and  humiliation  to  the 
lady  who  has  done  you  the  honor  to  consent  to  be  your 
•wife.  Your  devotion  to  this  woman  is  the  talk  of 
the  town!" 

"If  that  were  true,  which  I  by  no  means  admit,  1 
'deny  your  right  to  question  my  conduct !"  cried  Phil, 


"T72  LIL>    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

I 

'  crimson  with  indignation.  "The  lady  to  whom  you 
refer  is  as  pure  as  a  saint,  and  I  shall  allow  no  man, 
not  even  my  father,  to  speak  lightly  of  her  in  my; 
presence !" 

"And  yet  you  set  the  tongues  of  ail  New  York  gos- 
siping by  your  attentions  to  her,  you  the  betrothed  hus- 
band of  another  woman,  You  deny  the  right  of  your 
father  to  question  your  conduct,  and  yet  you  are  set- 
ting yourself  up  as  a  target,  inviting  the  darts  of 
every  scandal-monger  in  the  city.  Are  you  lost  to  all 
sense  of  honor  that  you  can  speak  like  that?" 

"The  word  'honor*  comes  with  a  bad  grace  from 
your  lips,"  sneered  Phil,  forgetting  himself  under  the 
lash  of  his  anger. 

Mr.  Sumner  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence,, 
then: 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded,  very  quietly. 

"I  mean  that  I  have  yielded  the  sacrifice  you  de- 
manded of  me,  and  that  I  shall  marry  the  woman 
•whom  you  chose,  not  I.  But  I  cannot  compel  my  heart 
to  follow  the  dictates  of  your  will,  even  to  save  you 
from  the  position  into  which  your  lack  of  that  honor 
of  which  you  prat  has  thrown  you." 

For  a  moment  the  man  stood  dazed  and  dumb  under 
his  son's  words,  then  with  a  calm  deliberation  he  took 
out  his  match-safe,  struck  a  match  and  lighted  the  gas. 
Then  he  turned  and  looked  Phil  full  in  the  face. 

"I  wanted  to  see  what  manner  of  man  you  have 
become  that  you  dare  utter  such  words  to  nie,"  he  said, 
•with  well-fitting  dignity.  "I  confess  that  I  did  demand 
that  you  ask  Miss  Langford  to  become  your  wife,  and 
the  relief  I  felt  when  I  knew  that  she  had  consented. 
I  was  even  sorry  for  you  when  you  gave  me  no  op* 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  173 

to  speak  to  you  upon  the  subject,  and  did 
£orce  it  upon  you,  respecting  your  embarrassment, 
after  hearing  the  stories  that  are  afloat  concern- 
ing your  attentions  to  this  dancing-girl,  I  would  have 
spared  you,  but  you  put  it  beyond  my  power.  I  called 
you  in  here  hoping  to  find  you  repentant,  determining 
that  I  \vculd  help  you  in  the  future,  regretting,  as  I 
have  regretted  ever  since  its  occurrence,  that  I  re- 
fused the  demand  for  money  that  you  made  upon  me 
to  pay  your  gambling  debts,  and  determining  that  I 
would  make  yoa  an  allowance  in  future  that  would 
place  you  beyond  temptation.  And  you  receive  my 
advice,  reward  my  £C9d  intentions  by  insult.  You — 

"Stop!"  cried  Phil,  throwing  up  his  head  and  com- 
pelling silence  by  the  commanding  tone  of  his  voice, 
"What  are  those  falsehoods  that  you  are  uttering? 
My  gambling  debts!  To  what  are  you  referring?" 

"To  the  ten  thousand  dollars  for  which  you  asked 
me  in  your  letter  telling  me  of  yo:ir  folly,  and  promis- 
ing to  reform  in  the  event  of  my  never  mentioning 
the  subject  in  your  hearing.  Well,  I  did  let  you  have 
the  money,  because  I  thought  it  would  be  a  lesson 
to  you  for  the  future,  as  I  told  you  in  my  letter,  but 
I  have  never  mentioned  the  subject  to  you  because 
you  have  avoided  me,  never  entering  my  presence 
except  when  your  mother  was  by,  or  some  one  was 
in  the  office.  And  then — " 

ait !  Let  us  understand  this  much  before  you  go 
on.  I  never  sent  you  any  such  letter  in  my  life.  I 
never  played  a  game  of  cards  at  which  I  lost  more  than 
a  hundred  at  a  sitting  in  my  life,  and  certainly  never 
more  than  five  hundred  altogether  in  my  life.  There 
%  ax>  man  who  is  a  more  moderate  card-player  than  I, 


,174  kIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

JIG  man  who  cares  less  for  the  game ;  and  I  have  never 
-asked  you  for  a  cent  over  the  allowance  made  me.  On 
the  contrary,  I  have  been  most  successful  in  Wall 
.Street,  and  had  about  concluded  to  ask  for  the  dis- 
^ontinuance  of  the  allowance  altogether." 

The  two  men  stood  there  staring  at  each  other,  the 
•one  in  haughty,  insulted  pride,  the  other  half  in  unbe- 
lief, for  some  moments  before  either  spoke ;  then  Mr. 
Sunnier,  Sr.,  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehea.d  ia 
''bewilderment. 

"I  wish  that  what  you  say  were  true,"  he  said  at 
last ;  "but  I  have  the  letter  in  your  own  writing  in  my, 
private  safe  at  the  office." 

For  the  first  time  a  puzzled  expression  crossed  Phil's 
jfface. 

"If  that  5s  true,  I  denounce  it  as  a  forgery!"  he  ex- 
claimed, hotly. 

Mr.  Sumner  started,  then  made  a  gesture  of  depre- 
cation as  he  turned  away. 

"I  half  believed  you  for  a  moment  until  I  rernem- 
"bered  what  followed,"  he  said,  wearily.  "There  is  nqi 
use  to  add  a  lie  to  your  sin,  Phil." 

He  would  have  walked  away,  but  the  young  man 
caught  him  by  the  arm  almost  fiercely. 

"I  demand  to  know  what  you  mean!"  he  cried, 
"'You  have  not  the  right  to  refuse  to  speak!  I  swear 
•that  I  never  asked  you  for  such  a  loan,  such  a  gift  in 
tny  life.  Even  if  I  had  needed  it,  my  mother's  fortune 
has  been  at  my  disposal  any  time  that  I  might  require 
it." 

Again  Mr.  Sumner  faced  him,  this  time  looking 
•eagerly  into  the  handsome,  manly  face  of  his  son* 
There  was  not  a  shadow  of  falsehood  in  the  frank, 


LIL?   THE   DANC1NG-GIKX 

open  eyes,  and  a  breathless  sort  of  hope  seemed  to 
steal  over  the  elder  man. 

"Then   answer   this — by   your   mother's    love— -did 
you,  or  did  you  not,  forge  the  name  of  Arnold  Lang- 
:  ford  to  a  check  for  ten  thousand  dollars  ?" 

"Good  God,,  no!" 

The  voice  was  one  of  thunder.  The  old  man  reeled. 
He  put  out  his  hand  and  caught  his  son's  arm  for* 
support.  His  face  was  ghastly  in  its  pallor,  and  yet 
his  eyes  were  blazing  with  the  light  of  hope. 

"Swear  it!"  he  cried,  hoarsely.    "Swear  it!" 

"I  swear  by  almighty  Heaven  1  by  my  hope  of  sal- 
vation!" cried  Phil,  with  thrilling  earnestness.  "Who* 
hfa's  accused  me  of  so  foul  a  crime?  There  seems  to 
have  been  some  sort  of  treachery  at  work  here,  and 
you  and  I  have  been  too  long  silent.  It  is  now  time- 
that  both  should  speak,  and  that  we  understand  each 
other  at  last !" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"It  seems  so  good  to  be  permitted  to  see  you  once 
more,  Lil!  Are  you  feeling  quite  yourself  again?" 

Kirk  Maitland  had  gone  direct  from  the  club  and 
his  interview  with  Halford  Summer  to  the  residence 
of  the  woman  whom  he  had  tried  to  injure,  and  to  his 
surprise  was  admitted  to  her  presence.  He  had  been 
as  devoted,  during  her  illness  and  convalescence,  in 
his  inquiries  as  had  Philip  himself;  but  while  he  had 
witnessed  the  tableau  of  the  evening  before,  seeing 
Phi!  wit^  tv-s  a-rm  ^bont  the  *ur~-^  whom 


THE    DANCING-GIRL 

loved,  their  lips  meeting,  he  had  not  been  permitted  to 
enter. 

But  Lil  was  looking  more  like  a  return  to  health 
than  she  had  yet  done  when  he  was  shown  in,  and 
there  was  even  something  of  the  old  coquetry  in  the 
smile  that  greeted  his  words. 

"Not  so  good  as  that,"  she  answered,  extending  her 
hand  cordially  in  lieu  of  rising,  a  formality  not  de- 
manded of  convalescents;  "but  infinitely  better  than  I 
have  been  doing.  I  shall  be  out  of  this  in  another 
.week."  I 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that;  It  has  been  an  anxious 
lime,  I  can  tell  you,  for  all  of  us.  What  a  pleasure  it 
must  be  to  a  woman  to  feel  her  power,  as  you  must! 
[Why,  half  the  fellows  in  New  York  have  looked  as  if 
they  were  in  mourning.  Great  Scott !  what  a  rousing 
reception  you  will  get  when  you  go  back  to  the  stage !" 

An  expression  of  shame  and  shrinking  darkened  the 
beautiful  face.  She  did  not  reply  at  once  to  Maitland, 
but  when  she  did  she  said,  slowly: 

"I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  go  back> 

"Why?"  he  asked,  curiously. 

•"Oh,"  with  a  gesture  of  deprecation,  "I  loathe  it  ] 
feo!" 

•"Ah!  you  think  you  do;  but  life  would  be  no  life  to 
you  now  without  it.  I  have  heard  stage  folk  make 
such  resolutions  before,  but  they  always  break  them. 
You'll  go  back,  and  you'll  find  yourself  a  greater  fav- 
orite than  ever  before,"  > 

"I  don't  think  so.    It  seems  to  me  now  that  the  sight  x 
of  a  theater  would  sicken  me.  1  shall  never  return  to 
the  old  ways  again." 

She    was   looking  out   feJU>   tbe  brilliantly   lighted 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

street,  her  perfect  profile  turned  toward  him.  He 
wondered  if  Philip  Sumner  and  the  tableau  he  remem- 
bered of  the  evening  before  had  anything  to  do  with 
that  resolution,  and  a  flush  of  anger  came  to  hi  a 
cheeks.  He  controlled  it  well,  however,  and  said, 
lightly : 

"Don't  talk  like  that.  You  make  me  feel  positively 
lachrymose.  When  you  are  well  and  strong  again 
you  will  think  differently.  Do  you  know  what  I  think 
would  be  the  greatest  possible  benefit  to  you?" 

"What?" 

"A  year  abroad.    It  would  take  you  away  from  un-  ; 
pleasant  memories,  get  the  morbidness  out  of  you,  and' 
do  you  more  good  than  all  the  doctors'  stuffs  in  the 
country.     Why  don't  you  try  it,  Lil?" 

There  was  weariness,  almost  despair  in   the  eyes  ! 
that  were  lifted  to  his. 

"I  can't/'  she  answered,  pathetically.    "There  is  the 
living  to  earn.     It  won't  be  so  easy  now  that  I  mean  ; 
to  abandon — the  past." 

"Fiddlesticks !  My  dear  girl  you  were  never  cut  out 
for  that  sort  of  thing,  and  there  isn't  a  fellow  in  the 
city  that  would  allow  it.  Fancy  your  doing  anything- 
except  dancing!  Fancy  your  being  anything  except 
the  goddess  we  all  adore!  You've  been  a  queen  too 
long  to  ever  be  a  slave.  The  first  thing  a  fellow  asks 
when  he  enters  the  club  now  is,  'Has  anybody  heard 
how  Lil  is  to-day?'  and  a  score  of  voices  cry,  'Yes.1 
They've  all  been  to  inquire,  you  know.  They  talked 
of  putting  up  regular  bulletins." 

Lil  laughed  slightly,  then  said,  restlessly: 

"Talk  to  me  of  something  besides  myself.  I  am 
sick  to  death  of  the  subject.  I  want  a  breath  of  fresh 


178  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

air  from  the  outside.  Tell  me  all  the  latest  gossip* 
Who* is  dead?  Who  is  married.  What  man  has  run 
away '-with- 'his  friend's  wife?  And  what  woman  has 
been  selling  her  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage?  Tell 
me  something." 

Maitland  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  laugh- 
eci  softly. 

"There,  that  is  like  you,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head 
gently.  "By  Jove,  Lil,  you  are  prettier  than  ever! 
There  I  go  again!  I  beg  your  pardon;  but  you  are 
really  the  only  subject  that  is  interesting  to  me.  Let 
me  see.  Did  you  hear  about  Dick  Neville?  Go^\ 
thrown  out  of  his  carriage  the  other  day  and  was  cat' 
ried  home  unconscious.  His  wife  went  through  h?s 
pockets,  by  design  or  accident.  Any  way  you  fix  it, 
it  was  unlucky  for  poor  Dick.  She  found  a  letter  f rorii 
a  woman  with  whom  he  was  going  to  keep  an  appoint- 
ment. It  has  caused  no  end  of  a  row  and  a  threatened 
divorce  suit." 

"Served  him  right!  Married  men  have  no  business 
having  engagements  with  other  women.  I  hope  she'M 
win  the  suit !" 

"Bloodthirsty  little  savage!  Then  there  was  Sam 
Ewirig.  He  was  driving  up  the  boulevard  the  other 
day  with  Nathalie,  Vinita,  and  who  should  he  meet 
face  to  face  but  his  own  wife  driving  down  the  boule- 
\^ard  with  Edward  Ferrando.  There  promises  to  be 
something  interesting  grow  out  of  that  too.  Have 
you  seen  Phil  lately?" 

"Philip  Sumner?" 

"Yes." 

"He  was  here  last  night." 


l,IL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  Iffy 

"Oh!  Then  of  course  he  told  you  about  his  enam- 
orita." 

Co,  I  don't  think  so.    What  about  her?" 
.    He  saw  her  eagerness  but  too  clearly;  but  there 
was  only  the  utmost  nonchalance  in  his  voice  and  man- 
ner as  he  continued : 

4;Oh;  only  about  the  grand  blow  that  is  being-  made 
.about  the  wedding.  It  is  to  be  at  Grace  Church,  you 
know,  with  no  end  of  swelldom  present.  It  promises 
to  be  the  greatest  spread  that  New  York  has  se^n 
in  many  moons.  There  are  to  be  twelve  attendants 
for  the  bride,  full  choral  service  and  all  that.  Phil's 
present  to  her  is  to  be  a  tiara  that  is  said  to  have  cost 
close  to  two  hundred  thousand.  You  know  the  wed- 
ding is  barely  three  weeks  oft"  now.  I  met  him  ia 
front  of  a  jeweler's  to-day,  and  he  asked  me  to  go  in 
and  help  him  select  some  scarf-pins  for  the  ushers. 
They  are  really  stunning.  I  tell  you,  in  spite  of  his 
coolness  about  it,  the  young  man  feels  his  luck  keenly, 
and  is  about  as  proud  of  having  won  one  of  the  great^ 
cst  heiresses  in  New  York  as  any  fellow  you  ever  saw. 
They  are  to  go  abroad  for  a  year." 

He  had  watched  the  sweet  face  grow  whiter  and 
whiter  as  he  talked,  watched  the  lovely  eyes  drpop, 
watched  the  cinching  of  the  small,  thin  hands,  the 
valiant  struggle  she  was  making  to  maintain  her  self- 
control,  but  it  did  not  stop  the  flow  of  the  heartless 
Words.  He  went  on  relentlessly  until  he  had  finished, 
then  paused  to  see  the  full  effect  of  the  blow  he  had 
delivered. 

She  felt  that  she  must  make  some   remark,  ami 
/while  her  heart  was  quivering  under  the  agonizing 
of  his  lash,  she  forced  her  stiff  lips  to  say : 


LIL.    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

"A"  year.    It  is  a  long  time." 

"It  doesn't  seen  long  to  lovers,"  he  answered* 
quietly. 

"Are  they  lovers,  or  is  it  merely  a  family  arrange- 
ment?" 

"You'd  think  they  were  lovers  if  you  could  see  Phil 
at  the  florist's  the  first  thing  every  morning,  selecting 
flowers  for  her,  and  sending  her  a  note  with  them. 
The  fellows  at  the  club  call  him  'Romeo/  and  guy  the 
life  out  of  him.  But  he  takes  it  good  naturedly, 
enough.  He's  a  nice  fellow,  Phil  is,  if  he  would  only; 
drop  that  silly  desire  for  'mashing/  It's  the  only, 
weak  thing  I've  ever  seen  in  him.  He  can  never  see 
a  pretty  face  without  an  insatiable  longing  to  make 
its  owner  fall  in  love  with  him,  and  the  fact  of  her 
being  a  married  woman  does  not  daunt  him  at  all. 
He  just  keeps  up  the  siege  until  she  unconditionally, 
surrenders." 

"And  they  go  abroad  the  twenty-fifth  of  this  month, 
you  say?" 

A  crimson  splash  had  crossed  her  white  cheek  like 
a  blood-streak  that  follows  a  wound. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  indifferently.    "And  that's  just  I 
what  you  ought  to  do,  and  pull  yourself  out  of  thif  j 
illness.     You  ought  to  go  now,  by  %ne  of  the  firsfj 
steamers.     Paris  would  do  you  a  world  of  good.     I 
Say  Lil,  why  not  marry  me  and  let  me  take  you?'*' 

She  started.  She  was  so  weak  from  her  illness,, 
from  the  terrible  mental  strain  to  which  she  had  been- 
subjected,  and  then  he  had  worked  her  up  to  a  pitch 
of  excitement  that  bordered  in  hysteria.  He  had 
done  it  deliberately,  watching  his  own  progress  step 
st$  step.  He  saw  that  she  was  quivering  i 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  Itf£ 

ck  as  she  leaned  a  trifle  forward.  He  continued  just 
as  quietly  as  if  his  heart  were  not  throbbing  untH  he 
feared  she  might  hear  it : 

"Do  you  remember  that  bluff  of  yours  I  called,  just 
before'you  were  taken  ill?  Don't  you  remember?  The 
bet  you  made  with  Nathalia  Vinita  ?  You  said  you 
would  consent  to  become  my  wife  at  the  end  of  a 
month  if  your  engagement  to  another  had  not  been 
announced.  Dear  little  one,  redeem  your  premise. 
Let  me  take  care  of  you.  Let  me  take  you  out  of  this 
where  you  will  forget  the  past  that  has — distressed 
you!"  " 

Forget!  She  felt  at  that  moment  that  she  would 
gladly  die  to  bring  forget  fulness.  Phil  had  deceived 
her  again.  She  had  lived  through  his  former  decep- 
tion, and  she  would  live  through  this,  but  she  felt  that 
her  heart  was  broken. 

She  felt  sure  that  every  one  present  the  evening" 
when  she  had  made  her  foolish  bet  had  understood  to 
whom  she  referred,  and  the  humiliation  stung  her  to 
the  quick. 

After  all,  wrhat  difference  could  anything  make  in 
her  life?  She  was  abandoned  by  those  who  should 
have  protected  her>  deserted  by  the  man  whom  she 
loved  with  all  the  strength  of  her  nature,  disgraced 
by  the  outside  show  of  the  life  she  had  led,  not  by 
any  sinful  act  of  hers.  What  hope  was  there  ? 

An  hysterical  sound,  between  a  laugh  and  a  heart- 
breaking cry,  arose  to  her  lips. 

"You  won  the  bet  all  right  enough,  Kirk,  and  you 
deserve  the  payment.  They  call  it  a  debt  or  honor, 
don't  they  ?" 

rY^s,"   he    answered,     leaning-    forward    eagerly* 


[82  LIL/  THE    DANCING-GIRL 

*Does  that  mean  that  you  will  be  my  wife,  IJ1?" 

"Yes,  I  will  "be  your  wife!"  she  answered,  the  hys- 
;eria  growing  upon  her. 

"At  once?"  he  cried,  scarcely  able  to  force  his 
70ice  above  a  whisper.  "At  once?  Let  our  wedding 
ake  place  before  that  of  Philip  Sumner  and  Miss 
^angford.  I  ask  it  only  to  spare  you,  dear,  to  save 
,'ou  the  gossip.  You  understand  me,  do  you  not?" 
"Yes,"  she  exclaimed,  loudly.  "Let  it  take  place 
n  two  weeks  from  to-day.  Chet — Chet !  Where 
ire  you,  old  man?  I  want  you  to  come  here  and  con- 
gratulate me.  I  am  going  to  be  married  in  two  weeks 
:rom  to-day  to  Kirk  Maitland,  and  we  are  going 
ibfoad  for  a  year,  perhaps  for  two.  Do  you  hear, 
>ld  friend?  Come  and  tell  me  how  glad  you  are!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Halford  Sumner  looked  into  the  eyes  of  his  soft 
vith  a  sort  of  breathless  hope  that  was  bewildering, 
rle  did  not  Speak  at  once ;  but  stood  there  staring*, 
fielding  to  the  convincing  influence  of  the  truthful 
faze,  hoping,  dreading,  doubting. 

Phil's  hand  still  lay  upon  his  arm  detainingly,  the 
>cho  of  Phil's  earnest  voice  still  lingered  in  his  ears, 
Fhe  fascination  of  conflicting  emotions  held  him  si- 
ent  for  a  time,  then  he  hoarsely  exclaimed : 

"Where  did  you  get  that  check  for  ten  thousand 
lollars  which  you  cashed  at  the  bank  and  which  bore 
:he  signature  of  Arnold  Langford?" 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL 

'  "I  never  cashed  such  a  check;  I  never  had  such  .a 
check  in  my  possession.  Are  you  mad?" 

The  bewilderment  upon  Halford  Sumner's  counte- 
nance deepened.  He  sat  down  in  a  chair  suddenly  rand 
looked  up  at  his  son  as  if  his  vision  had  become  cloud- 
ed. His  hands  lay  limp  upon  the  arms  of  the  chair, 
and  there  were  heavy  drops  of  perspiration  about 
his  mouth  and  brow. 

"What  are  the  circumstances  to  which  you  refer?" 
questioned  Phil,  seeing  the  earnestness  of  his  father's 
manner.  "Detail  the  situation  to  me  and  the  crime 
of  which  I  am  accused.  Why  is  this  the  first  time 
ihat  I  have  heard  of  it?  I  entreat  of  you,  sir,  to  be 
as  explicit  as  possible." 

There  was  another  momentary  hesitation ;  then, 
in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  emotion,  Halford  Sum- 
ner  continued : 

"It  was  while  you  were  at  Newport,  you  remem- 
ber, about  three  months  ago,  that  I  received  the  let- 
ter bearing  your  name,  in  your  handwriting,  .detail- 
ing to  me  an  account  of  your  heavy  losses  at.  .poker 
and  other  games  of  chance.  I  had  received  an  anony- 
mous communication  before  that,  telling  rne  ,of  your 
-wild  life;  but  I  paid  no  attention  to  it,  as  I  never, do, 
to  an  unsigned  letter.  Your  letter,  however,  folioyring 
i*,  convinced  me  of  the  truth  of  the  statements  con- 
fined in  it,  and  I  determined  that  the  best  way  to 
teach  a  young  man  of  your  age  a  lesson  was  to,  make 
him  do  without  the  money  to  satify  such  desires,,  feel- 
ing that  if  those  debts  were  left  unpaid  it  would,  .pre- 
vent  your  playing  again.  I  wrote  to  you  to  thateffect, 
giving  you  advice  which  I  thought  you  needed- and 


"184  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

adding  a  few  harsh  words  which  I  thought  you  de- 
served.** 

"I  never,  received  that  letter  I"  exclaimed  Phil, 
grimly. 

:  Mr.  Sumner  started.  It  was  only  another  link,  and 
after  a  moment  of  thought  he  continued : 
\  "A  little  while  after  that — I  don't  know  just  how 
long ;  two  weeks,  perhaps,  or  three — Arnold  Langford 
examined  his  balance  and  found  it  ten  thousand  short. 
He  sent  for  the  checks  and  examined  them  in  my  pres- 
ence, pronouncing  one  for  ten  thousand  a  forgery. 
[We  were  both  naturally  very  much  excited,  and  at 
•my  suggestion  the  paying  teller  was  summoned.  Lang- 
ford  asked  him  if  he  remembered  the  check,  and  after 
examining  it  Murphy  said  he  did  quite  well.  He  was 
ithen  asked  if  he  knew  wTho  presented  it,  and  with  a 
promptness  that  took  my  breath  away  he  said  that 
Mr,  Philip  Sumrier  had  done  so  and  that  he  had  paid 
the  money  to  him." 

"The  infernal  liar!" 

"Then  you  did  not  present  it?" 

"I  tell  you  I  never  saw  it !" 

"Good  God!  It  can't  be  possible  that  Murphy; 
could  have  done  it,  and  then  attempted  to  fix  his  crime 
upon  you!"  , 

"It  certainly  looks  that  way.  But  go  on.  Why  was  y 
I  not  summoned  and  told  of  this?  Why  was  I  not  j 
given  an  opportunity  to  defend  myself?" 

Mr.  Sumner  hung  his  head  before  replying. 

"Your  letter  convinced  me  of  your  guilt!"  exclaimed 
the  old  man,  hoarsely.  "There  was  scarcely  a  doubt 
left  in  my  mind.  Remember,  the  amounts  were  iden- 
tical The  circumstantial  evidence  was  complete. 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  -185 

Langford  himself  had  seen  you  draw  a  check  that  day 
• — a  check  which  you  did  not  present  in  the  usual  wayt 
—and  had  observed  your  agitation.  Well — I  don't 
know  that  I  ought  to  tell  you  what  followed." 

''In  justice  to  me  I  demand  it." 

"I  suppose  you  are  right.  I  confess  to  you  that  I 
was  utterly  prostrated  by  the  blow  that  had  been  de- 
livered  to  me,  and  it  was  Langford  himself  who  came 
to  my  relief.  Of  course  I  expected  nothing  but  that 
publicity,  disgrace,  perhaps  even  Sing  Sing,  would 
follow,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  evidence  was  as 
complete  as  it  could  be  made.  Langford  called  me 
into  his  private  office,  where  I  offered  to  make  the 
amount  good  to  him;  but  this  he  most  emphatically, 
declined.  Then  he  told  me  he  had  a  proposition  to 
make  to  me.  You  have  never  heard  the  story,  Phil, 
and  I  hesitate  to  tell  it  to  you  now,  though  it  seems 
that  common  justice  demands  that  I  should  withhold 
nothing.  Well,  my  son,  Olive  was  born  before  the 
laws  of  the  Church  and  the  land  had  united  Arnold 
Langford  and  the  woman  who  afterward  became  his 
wife." 
,  "Good  heavens !" 

"It  is  a  secret  which  He  has  been  enabled  to  pre- 
serve to  the  present  time;  but  the  wild  fear  haunts 
Arnold  Langford  every  hour  of  his  life  that  the  dis^ 
grace  to  her  will  become  known  to  the  world.  It  has 
been  his  haunting  desire  to  secure  a  good  marriag'e  for 
her,  so  that  if  the  blow  should  fall,  it  would  come  with' 
less  deadly  effect.  The  proposition  that  he  made  to 
me  was  that  he  would  conceal  your  crime  from  the 
world  if  you  would  consent  to  make  that  daughter 
your  wife.  I  agreed  to  do  what  I  could  to  bring  about 


1 86  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

an  adjustment  of  the  affair,  but  one  of  the  conditions 
he  imposed  upon  me  was  that  no  mention  should  be 
made  to  you  of  the  forgery.  Not  one  syllable  was  to 
be  uttered  concerning  it.  He  felt  that  it  would  lower 
his  daughter  in  your  estimation,  and  there  would  be 
less  chance  for  her  future  happiness  if  it  were  known 
to  you  that  your  freedom  was  bought  with  this  mar-  ] 
siage.  He  argued  that  if  it  were  supposed  by  you 
that  your  crime  had  not  been  discovered,  your  honor 
.would  keep  you  faithful  to  the  daughter  of  the  man 
you  had  wronged,  and  might  make  an  honest  man  of 
you  in  future.  It  seemed  a  marvelous  thing  to  me 
that  he  would  wish  his  daughter  to  wed  with  a  forger ; 
but  he  argued  that  the  temptation  had  been  acted 
upon  under  impulse,  and  that  he  did  not  believe  the 
crime  would  ever  be  repeated.  He  urged  that  -the 
social  position  you  occupy  would  save  Olive  in  the 
event  of  the  shame  upon  her  birth  becoming  known ; 
and  it  is  needless  to  say  that  I  yielded  readily  to  the 
plan  he  proposed.  But  you  had  never  been  particu- 
larly demonstrative  in  your  attentions  to  the  young 
lady,  and  apparently  you  were  growing  colder.  At  > 
last  Arnold  Langford  insisted  that  something  must  be  f 
done.  In  a  quiet  way  he  made  at  known  to  me  that 
unless  the  terms  of  our  agreement  were  carried  out, 
he  would  prosecute  you  as  the  law  allowed/' 

"And  then  you  went  to  my  mother?"  questioned 
Phil,  eagerly. 

"Then  I  went  to  your  mother/1  assented  Mr,  Sum- 
ner. 

"But  you  did  not  tell  her  of  this  suspicion  against 
me?" 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  187 

"Good  heavens,  no!  Do  you  think  I  would  will- 
fully have  broken  her  heart?" 

"But  what  was  it  you  told  her,  sir?" 
"I  told  her  that  circumstances  at  the  bank  made 
Vt  absolutely  necessary  that  you  should  marry  Olive 
Langford.  That  an  unhappy  condition  of  affairs  sur- 
rounded me,  from  which  I  could  not  extricate  myself 
without  the  assistance  of  Arnold  Langford,  and  that 
he  gave  that  assistance  conditional  only  upon  your 
agreement  to  marry  his  daughter.  She  would  not 
yield  at  first,  would  agree  to  make  no  attempt  to  force 
your  inclination,  until  I  told  her  that  the  most  serious 
consequences  would  be  involved  if  she  refused.  I 
told  her  that  it  was  the  matter  of  our  family  honor 
that  was  at  stake,  and  that  refusal  would  involve  utter 
ruin!" 

"And  you  let  her  think  that  ruin  would  come  to 
you  and  not  to  me  ? 

"Yes.  I  know  that  my  wife  could  not  be  made  to 
doubt  my  honor  any  more  than  I  could  be  made  to 
doubt  hers." 

There  was  pride,  confidence,  devotion,  in  the  tone, 
and  Phil  flushed  crimson  under  memory  of  what  had 
^  been  said. 

|      "And  yet  you  doubted  me,  sir !"  he  exclaimed,  half 
V reproachfully,  half  humbly.     "You  gave  me  no  op- 
"  portunity  for  self-defense,  and  yet  to  my  knowledge, 
I   never  in  all  my  life  have  done  that  which  could 
cause  you  pain.     But,  sir,  we  have  each  something 
for   which    to   ask    the   other's    pardon.      You   have 
looked  upon  me  as  a  forger  and  I  looked  upon  you 
as  an  embezzler!" 
"Phil!" 


188  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

"It  is  quite  true,  sir.  When  I  asked  Olive  Lang- 
ford  to  be  my  wife,  I  did  it  under  the  impression 
that  I  was  saving  you  from  Sing  Sing." 

"Good  God!" 

"You  see  what  it  is  to  be  condemned  without  a  ; 
chance  to  refute  the  charges  of  crime  brought  against 
you :  but  I  had  the  word  of  my  mother !" 

"And  she  believed—" 

Hal  ford  Sumner  could  not  complete  his  sentence. 
He  fell  back  in  his  chair  ghastly,  suffering  intensely, 
and  at  the  same  moment  a  light  footstep  crossed  the 
hall  and  entered  the  room. 

"Halford !  Phil,  are  you  here  ?  I  heard  your  voices 
AS  I  came  in.  .What  has  happened  ?  Why  did  you 
not  come  to  bring  me  home,  Halford?  I  had  to  ask 
Fulda's  maid  to  come  with  me.  You  are  always  so 
prompt  that  I  became  alarmed/' 

An  embarrassed  silence  fell  upon  the  two  men,  but 
Phil  went  forward  almost  at  once  and  placed  his  arm 
about,  the  dainty  little  creature  whom  he  called  mother. 
He  observed  how  thin  and  white  she  had  became  in 
those  weeks,  and  the  strained,  haggard  expression 
about  the  sightless  eyes.  He  bent  down  and  kissed 
her  tenderly. 

"You  will  forgive  him  for  not  coming,  dearest,  when 
you  know  what  detained  him,  I  am  afraid  we  both 
forgot  the  time.  We  have  been  accusing  each  other  of 
grave  offense  in  our  own  minds,  little  one — my  father 
and  I — and  have  but  just  discovered  that  both  are  in- 
nocent of  the  charges.  What  my  father  told  you  of 
the  trouble  at  the  bank,  dear,  he  told  to  cover  from 
YOU  a  crime  whicfi  he  thought  I  had  committed.  He 
was  as  innocent  of  wrong  as  yourself,  thank  God !  You 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRT;  :iSgj 

ifDfeunderstoocl  the  words  he  spoke  to  you.  He  was 
excited,  perhaps,  and  said  more  than  he  meant  to,  but 
I  wish  you  would  tell  us  both  where  you  got  hold  of 
that  awful  word — embezzler!" 

.  The  blind  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Phil  in  wild  entreaty, 
and  hope.  The  white  lips  were  parted.  She  seemed 
•  for  the  moment  not  to  have  heard  the  latter  part  of 
his  sentence. 

"Innocent !"  she  whispered.  "Innocent !  Oh,  God, 
Phil!  Innocent,  and  I — his  wife — accused  him!  Hal- 
ford,  where  are  you?  Oh,  Halford,  can  you  ever — " 

He  did  not  give  her  an  opportunity  to  speak  the 
word  "forgive." 

lie  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  with  the 
'devotion  that  had  characterized  every  act  of  his  life 
toward  her.  It  was  a  protecting  worship  that  was 
now  as  it  had  always  been,  beautiful  in  its  transcend- 
ent tenderness. 

"But  we  have  all  doubted,7'  he  said,  with  deep  con- 
trition. "But,  thank  heaven,  it  is  removed  at  last!" 

There  was  a  moment  of  emotional  silence,  then  Phil 
Spoke  again. 

"But  tell  me,  dear/'  he  cried,  "has  any  one  besides 
my  father  spoken  to  you  on  this  subject?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  as  she  nestled  closely  to  her 
nusband's  side.  "No  one  except  Arnold  Langford. 
He  called  one  afternoon  to  see  your  father,  but  as  he 
was  not  at  home  he  made  me  a  little  visit." 

"What  was  it  he  said  to  you  ?"  asked  Mr.  Sumner. 

She  hesitated,  seeing  which  he  added : 

"It  is  necessary  that  you  should  .tell  us  exactly,  my 
.darling.  There  are  the  most  imperative  reasons  that 
there  should  be  no  further  concealments.  Some  one 


iI9O  LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL' 

( 

has  committea  a  crime,  and  both  Phil  and  I,  it  seem% 
have  been  accused  of  it.     I  told  Arnold  Langford  my-* 
self  that  I  had  told  you  that  matters  at  the  bank  made'., 
a  marriage  between  Phil  and  Olive  a  necessity." 


"He  said  that  you  had.    He  told  me  that  matters  I 
looked  bad  for  you;  that  the  world  would  call  your > 
crime  embezzlement,  though  it  was  his  own  belief  that 
you  were   innocent   so   far   as   intentions   were  con- 
cerned.    He  said  that  he  was  proving  his  belief  in 
you    by    desiring    this    marriage    between    Phil    and 
Olive.     He  asked  me  not  to  speak  to  you  of  our  in- 
terview, as  he  should  not  care  to  have  you  know  tha< 
he  had  spoken  upon  the  subject." 

Phil  and  his  father  exchanged  significant  glances. 

"Can  you  remember  the  day  that  this  call  waf 
made  ?"  asked  Halford  Sumner. 

"Yes;  it  was  the  afternoon  that  you  went  to  Len- 
nox." 

"And  Arnold  Langford  asked  for  me  upon  the 
occasion  of  the  visit  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Yet  he  knew  that  I  had  gone  to  Lennox  and  the 
business  that  took  me." 

Again  the  eyes  of  Phil  and  his  father  met,  and 
after  a  moment  of  silence  Halford  Sumner  remarked 
quietly : 

"It  looks  singularly  as  if  Murphy  were  not  alone 
the  culprit,  but  merely  an  accomplice.  I  think  this  if 
a  case  for  a  skilled  detective." 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

CHAPTER  XXX. 


Upon  the  morning  that  followed  her  betrothal  to 
Kirk  Maitland,  Lil  was  not  so  well.  She  ke£>t  her 
bed  until  noon,  and  then  was  almost  ghastly  in  her 
pallor  when  the  nurse  took  her  to  the  dancing-room, 
where  she  found  Chetwynd. 

He  had  not  slept  and  there  were  dark  circles  about 
his  eyes,  but  he  summoned  a  smile  to  his  lips  and 
assisted  her  to  her  chair  beside  the  window. 

Upon  a  stand  near  the  window  was  a  superb  vase  of 
orchids,  and  as  she  sat  down  she  leaned  forward  and 
touched  them  caressingly. 

"How  lovely!"  she  exclaimed  faintly.  "You  are  so 
good  to  me,  Chet  !'' 

"They  are  not  my  gift,"  he  said  in  a  tone  that  was 
dull  and  hoarse  and  passionless.  "They  came  from 
Maitland  I  think/' 

She  drew  back  as  if  an  adder  had  been  concealed 
among  them,  and  shivered  slightly.  She  was  tempt- 
ed for  a  .noment  to  order  the  nurse  to  take  them  away, 
then  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  wearily  and  closed 
her  eyes. 

Chetwynd's  heart  ached.  It  was  no  new  sensation, 
but  he  seemed  even  more  alive  to  it  than  usual.  Still 
it  was  not  self  that  he  considered  ;  it  was  only  of  her 
that  he  thought.  He  took  the  stand  and  set  it  aside, 
then  drew  up  a  chair  in  its  place  and  sat  down. 

"Are  you  feeling  worse,  little  one  ?"  he  asked  tend- 
erly. 

"Only  tired,  Chet;  that  is  afll.  I  can't  get  a  return 
fcf  the  old  energy,  try  as  I  will." 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

"But  are  you  trying,  Lil?  It  seems  to  me  that  that 
is  what  the  trouble  is.  Yesterday  you  were  almost 
like  yourself  again,  and  to-day — What  happened  to 
you  last  night,  dear,  to  make  you  do  what  you  did — to 
make  you  false  to  your  own  heart  ?" 

She  shuddered  and  drew  a  scarf  more  closely  about 
her. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  now  of  that,  old  man;  I  have  not 
the  strength  to  listen.  The  past  is  all  passed,  diet, 
and  I  haven't  got  the  nerve  to  look  into  the  future." 

''But  you  must  do  it,  child.  If  there  were  time, 
God  knows  I  would  willingly  spare  you;  but  you 
promised  that  in  two  weeks  you  would  be — that  man's 
wife." 

,     The    voice    was    harsh,  bleak,    unlike    ChetwyncTs 
usually  musical  tone,  but  Lil  did  not  open  her  eyes. 
<    "I  know,"  she  answered,  humbly. 

"But  you   don't  love  him.     You  know  you  don't 
love  him !" 
\    "I  never  said  that  I  did." 

"Yet  you  would  be  his  wife.  You  would  make  of 
your  life  a  legal  crime?  Y'ou  would  profanate  a  holy 
yow?  Will  you  turn  your  pure  life,  your  chaste  self 
into  a  wanton  that  the  law  will  recognize,  but  that 
.will  be  denied  through  all  ages  in  the  holiness  oJr 
heaven?" 

"Pouf,  Chet!  You  speak  like  a  preacher.  Give  us 
a  rest,  will  you  ?  What  difference  does  it  make  what 
becomes  of  me?  Why  should  I  care?  Am  I  to  pose 
'•^5ore  the  world  as  the  dupe  of  Philip  Sunnier  2  Am 
T*  to  say  that  he  deserted  me  to  marry  a  richer,  if  not 
a  handsomer  woman  than  I,  and  that  I  am  breaking 
my  heart  because  of  his  perfidy?  Rubbish!  There 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  193 

Js  nothing  on  God's  earth  that  could  make  me  more 
miserable  than  I  am.  It  is  the  curse  of  my  father 
that  is  upon  me,  and  that  will  follow  me  to  the  day  of 
my  death.  Perhaps  when  I  am  a  wife  he  may  re- 
tent." 

There  was  a  world  of  pathos  in  the  last  sentence, 
a  dry,  choking  sob  that  went  to  the  man's  heart,  but 
he  cried  out  violently: 

"But  why  in  heaven's  name  have  you  chosen  that 
man?  Was  it  on  account  of  that  silly  bet?" 

"Yes — no — I  don't  know.  That  had  something  to 
do  with  it,  of  course;  but — \vell,  you  see,  old  man,  I 
need  change  of  air  and  scene.  I  must  get  away.  I 
am  restless,  feverish.  I  must  get  away!  The  inact- 
ion will  kill  me !" 

"And  you  took  him  for  that?  You  consented  to 
foe  the  wife  of  a  man  whom  all  men  despise  for  that? 
Good  God!  You  might  as  well  have  been  my  wife. 
At  least  you  could  have  trusted  me.  At  least  you 
knew  that  I  should  have  cherished  you  to  the  last  day 
of  your  life  as  die  most  sacred  thing  with  which 
Heaven  could  have  intrusted  me.  I  should  have  wor- 
shipped you  and  have  expected  nothing  in  return 
nothing — nothing!  Your  body  would  have  been  as 
sacred  to  me  as  your  soul  is  pure.  You  would  have 
been  safe  in  the  care  of  my  love,  as  safe  as  if  Heaven 
surrounded  you!" 

At  the  beginning  of  his  speech  she  had  opened  her 
*yes  a;:d  looked  at  him.  But  as  he  continued  a  tre- 
mendous, almost  overpowering  surprise  grew  in  her 
expression.  Gradually  she  sat  up,  clasping  the  arms 
of  the  chair  tighter  and  tighter,  her  eyes  growing  larg- 
er. It  was  a  revelation  that  he  was  making  to  her, 


194  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

and  when  he  had  finished  she  could  scarcely  control 
her  trembling  voice  to  make  reply. 

"Chet,"  she  whispered,  "is  it  possible  that — /  an* 
the  woman  whom  you  have  loved  ?" 
*  He  started  as  if  he  had  unintentionally  betrayed  a 
secret.  A  crimson  glow  burned  for  awhile  in  his 
pale  cheeks,  then  he  hung  his  head  and  answered 
doggedly : 

"Yes,  you  are  the,  woman.    I  never  meant  that  you 

should  know.    I  should  not  have  spoken  now  only, 

^my  emotion  betrayed  me.    I  love  you  sacredly.    I 

love  you  as  the  saints  are  loved.    I  love  you  without 

thought  or  hope  of  return." 

She  sunk  back  in  her  chair.  The  tears  were  roll- 
ing over  her  face  and  down  upon  the  lace  front  o$ 
fkr  pretty  negligt. 

"Oh,  Chet,"  she  whispered,  "why  did  you  not  speak 
sooner?" 

He  turned  to  her  almost  fiercely. 

"Would  there  have  been  a  chance  for  me?"  he 
asked,  hoarsely.  "Is  it  possible  that  you  ever  could 
have  consented?" 

"Yes!"  she  answered,  passionately.  "I  should 
have  done  you  that  great  and  irreparable  wrong.  I 
should  have  cursed  your  life  in  that  wise.  I  should 
not  have  taken  you  into  consideration  at  all,  but  I 
should  have  married  you  to  escape  from  myself.  I 
am  glad  you  did  not  allow  me  to  do  it.  I  am  glad  I 
did  not  know.  You  have  been  so  true,  too  staunch  a 
friend  for  rne  to  harm  like  that.  I  did  not  love  you— 
1  do  not  love  you.  My  words  may  sound  hard  and 
cruel,  but  they  are  true.  Now  you  will  go  away  and 
\  rget  xe.  but  then  you  should  have  been  always  by* 


LIL,   TKE   DANCING-GIRL  Iy5 

would  have  seen  that  my  heart  is  dead,  anu  iov- 
ing  me  it  would  have  broken  yours." 

"Lil — Lil,  it  would  be  no  wrong.  It  is  not  toe  late 
yet,  dear.  Tell  him  that  you  have  reconsidered,  and 
that  you  can  not  keep  the  promise  you  gave  him, 
because  your  whole  better  self  cries  cut  against  the 
sacrifice.  Be  my  wife,  darling.  Let  me  save  you. 
I  swear  to  you  that  I  shall  demand  no  word,  no  act 
of  obedience  to  my  will.  You  shall  be  as  sacred  to 
me  as  an  angel  confided  to  my  care  by  Heaven  itself. 
Have  mercy  upon  yourself,  Lil,  and  upon  me.  Be 
iny  wife,  dear  one." 

"I  can't!"  she  grasped.  "It  is  too  late — eternally 
too  late.  I  thank  Heaven  that  I  am  denied  the  ability 
to  do  you  that  wrong,  Chet.  I  can't  love  one  man 
one  day,  promise  to  be  the  wife  of  another  man  the 
next,  throw  him  over  and  marry  a  third  on  the  day 
that  follow?.  But  as  I  am  that  is  beyond  me,  I  must 
accept  the  curse  that  my  father  put  upon  me.  I  must 
see  myself  wither  and  peri?h  as  he  said.  There  is  no 
hope  for  me,  Chet,  and  you  only  make  it  worse  by 
your  words.  For  God's  sake  let  me  go,  and  if  you 
love  me  say  no  more !" 

She  had  already  arisen,  and  as  she  spoke  the  la§t 
words  she  staggered  blindly  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Crushed,  broken,  too  utterly  wretched  to  be  even 
capable  ol  thought,  Lil  lay  in  her  own  room,  not  even 
venturing  near  the  dancing-room  lest  she  encounter 


195  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GiSL 

jQi'etwynd.  It  seemed  to  her  that  there  wab  but  one 
escape  from  the  position  into  which  her  folly  had 
placed  her,  and  that  lay  in  death. 

And  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  contemplated 
death  calmly.  It  was  the  only  thing  that  seemed  to 
bring  her  peace.  Not  that  she  had  thought  out  this 
solution  of  the  situation  deiberately.  It  was  simply 
a  means  of  escape  that  had  suggested  itself  as  un- 
formed purpose,  and  yet  it  was  fixed  in  her  mind 
with  a  tenacity  that  would  have  surprised  her  had 
she  retained  the  power  of  reasoning. 

Twice  the  nurse  entered  the  room  and  saw  her 
lying  with  hands  folded  across  her  bosom  and  closed 
eyes,  her  face  waxen  and  rigid,  and  twice  she  retired 
without  the  courage  to  speak.  Then  thinking  that 
she  might  arouse  her,  the  really  kind  woman  went 
to  her  with  a  package  of  letters. 

"Will  you  examine  your  mail,  Miss  Esmonde?" 
she  asked,  gently.  "There  are  half  a  dozen  boxes  of 
flowers  that  have  just  arrived,  and  a  basket  that 
would  test  even  my  strength  to  lift." 

L51  opened  her  eyes  quietly.  There  was  none  of 
that  awful  struggle  against  fate  expressed  in  her  face. 
Her  eyes  were  as  cairn  as  those  of  a  child. 

She  took  the  letters  and  opened  one  or  two  in- 
(differently.  The  nurse  left  her,  and  as  soon  as  the 
door  had  closed  the  others  were  thrown  aside  and 
the  old  apathy  returned.  It  was  not  long,  however, 
until  the  nurse  returned. 

"Mr.  Maitlarid  is  here/'  she  announced,  softly.  "I 
told  him  that  you  were  not  so  well,  but  he  requeste^. 
that  you  should  see  him  if  only  for  a  moment." 

A  crimson  flush   stole  into  the  ghastly   face.    It 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  197 

seemed  for  one  instant  that  she  was  about  to  break 
out  in  some  wild  refusal,  then  she  checked  herself. 

"Admit  him/'  she  said,  quietly. 

"Here?"  inquired  the  nurse. 
;      "Here!"  answered  Lil,  dully. 

Her  eyes  were  closed  again  and  she  did  not  hear 
Maitland's  entrance,  did  not  know  that  he  was  near, 
until  he  touched  her  gently. 

She  shrunk  back  and  a  cry  of  alarm  arose  to  her 
lips,  but  she  strangled  it  before  it  had  reached  the 
air. 

"You  startled  me,"  she  said  dully.  "I  think  I  must 
have  fallen  asleep." 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said,  tenderly.  "They  tell 
me  you  are  not  so  well  to-day,  my  darling.  Ah!  if 
love  could  cure  you,  how  strong  and  well  you  would 
become!  I  am  so  proud  and  so  happy,  sweetheart, 
that  it  seems  as  if  I  must  impart  seme  of  my  own 
vitality  to  you.  The  day  is  charming;  don't  you  think 
that  if  you  were  to  make  an  effort  and  let  me  take 
you  out  for  a  little  drive  it  would  do  you  good?" 

There  was  so  much  real  earnestness  in  the  tone 
that  it  touched  her.  There  was  a  glimmer  of  tears 
in  her  eyes  as  she  lifted  them. 

"Xot  to-day,"  she  answered  faint! v.  vow 

— perhaps." 

"How  good  of  you  to  give  me  tb; 
the  day  will  be  as  fine  as  this  one. 
be  a  world  of  benefit  to  you.     Do  t 

•I  did  this  morning,  darling?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  laiie^< 
boy  before  replying. 

"!  engaged  passage  on  the   'Campan: 


'198  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

&nd  Mrs.  Kirk  Maitland.  You  don't  know  how 
proud  I  was  to  write  that  down !  The  booking-clerk! 
whom  I  know,  looked  at  me  in  great  surprise,  and  I 
told  him  my  joyful  secret.  It  isn't  much  of  a  secret 
now,  though,  as  every  fellow  at  the  club  has  been 
made  my  individual  confidant.  They  are  all  having 
a  laugh  at  my  expense,  but  I  can  afford  to  let  them 
laugh  whois  I  have  all  the  happiness." 

She  \va3  trying  with  all  her  might  to  keep  him 
from  seeing  the  anguish  of  her  countenance;  but  the 
whitening  mis-t^y  spread  from  throat  to  brow  and 
she  shrunk  badr  as  if  every  word  were  a  sword 
thrust.  But  he  continued,  with  that  oblivion  of 
everything  except  s^f  which  had  always  character- 
ized him  : 

"I  went  to  the  jewe?ci's  this  morning.  There  was 
nothing  there  that  half  pleased  me  as  a  ring  to  bind 
our  betrothal,  and  so  I  ordered  one.  In  the  mean- 
time I  got  this,  simply  to  sevve  the  purpose  until  the 
other  could  be  ready." 

He  drew  a  little  case  from  his  pocket,  and  as  he 
opened  it  a  magnificent  diamond  flashed  up  at  him.. 
He  took  the  ring  out  and  slipped  it  upon  her  finger. 
In  the  old  days  such  a  bauble  would  have  delighted 
her  as  much  as  the  scintillations  would  have  pleased 
a  child,  but  she  shrunk  back  then  as  if  it  were  a  band 
of  searing  iron  about  her  finger.  She  took  it  off  and 
laid  it  upon  the  table. 

"It  is  very  beautiful,"  she  stammered — "'too  beauti- 
ful ;  but  I  can  not  wear  rings  when  I  don?t  feel  well. 
They  seem  to  suffocate  me.  You  must  not  think  me 
unappreciative." 

"I  could  never  think  anything  of  you  that  is  not 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  199 

lovely.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  understand  how  I 
adore  you,  darling." 

"1  know."  she  said,  unable  to  repress  a  little  shiver. 
"I  am  loved  so — so  much  more — than  I  deserve! 
'But  I  am — so  tired  now,  Kirk.  Will  you — leave  me 
for  a  little  whil< 

"May  I  come  again  to-night?" 

"Not  to-night — to-morrow/' 

"At  what  hour  will  you  drive?" 

"Come  at  t</,o:  it  will  be  quiet  then." 

"All  right.     Lil!" 

"Wettr 

"Will  you — will  you  kiss  me — once?" 

A  wild  flash  of  repulsive  pain  crossed  her  face.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  to  do  so  would  be  a  pollution  to 
which  she  never  could  submit.  And  then  came  the 
thought  that  she  had  not  the  right  to  refuse.  She 
had  promised  to  be  his  wife;  it  was  her  duty  to  sub- 
mit to  the  caress  that  he  did  not  demand  but  im- 
plored. 

She  looked  up  at  him  pleadingly,  but  there  was  no 
refusal  in  the  expression.  A  more  sensitive  man 
would  have  understood ;  and  perhaps  he  did,  but  did 
not  care. 

He  stooped  over  her  and  pressed  his  lips  linger- 
ingly  upon  her  o«vn. 

How  she  bore  it  was  a  mystery.  The  fire  in  her 
eyes  glowed  with  a  living  flame,  her  breath  was  hot 
and  sultry.  She  did  not  hear  the  words  that  he 
Spoke  to  her  after  that;  but  she  knew  when  he  left 
the  room,  and  for  the  first  time  a  strength  seemed  to 
be  lent  her.  She  lifted  herself,  and  with  burning 


COQ  2.IL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

rage  against  him  and  herself,  in  her  heart,  she  flung 
out  her  hands. 

"Oh,  God !  I  can't—I  can't !"  she  cried,  hoarsely, 
passionately.  "It  would  be  a  prostitution  from  which 
there  would  be  nof  escape  save  into  hell!  I  can't 
submit  myself  to  the  caresses  of  a  man  whom  I  loathe 
when  the  very  touch  of  his  lips  scorches  me  like  hot 
iron.  Perdition  itself  could  be  no  worse.  Oh,  God! 
what  a  thing  I  have  become.  It  is  my  father's  curse 
that  is  upon  me — my  father's  curse.  And  I  can  not 
escape  it.  It  will  follow  me  to  the  grave  and  beyond 
it.  There  has  not  been  an  hour  since  those  awful 
words  were  spoken  that  the  sound  of  them  has  not 
rung  through  my  brain,  poisoning  my  heart  and  my 
life.  They  are  to  be  my  companions  always — always, 
following  me  to  the  very  door  of  the  grave  and  be- 
yond it,  for  it  was  'through  all  eternity'  that  he 
said." 

She  fell  back  and  covered  her  quivering  face. 
There  had  been  the  light  of  incipient  insanity  in  her 
eyes,  and  they  burned  like  balls  of  fire  as  the  lids 
closed  over  them.  ~She  could  not  bear  the  torture 
of  it  and  lifted  herself  once  more. 

"If  I  were  dead,"  she  said,  hoarsely,  "if  I  were\ 
dead  he  might  forgive  me  and  recall  it.  If  he  saw! 
me  lying  at  his  feet,  with  the  white  supplication  of 
death  upon  my  face,  he  might  understand  and  recall 
the  words  that  he  spoke.  My  life  is  dead.  There 
is  no  hope  living.  I  will  go  there.  At  least  it  offers 
hope — hope  of  that  future  that  lies  with  God !" 

She  got  up  and  stood  upon  her  feet.  Fever  lent 
her  a  false  strength,  and  going  to  her  dressing  room 
she  selected  a  gown  of  plain  dark  material  and  slipped 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  2OI 

it   on.     She   did   not   observe  that   it   was   sizes   too 

large  for  her,  on  account  of  the  flesh  she  had  lost 

during  her  illness,  or  if  she  had  observed  she  was 

in   no  humor  to  care.     She    pinned  on  a    hat    and 

a  veil  about  her  face,  then  let  herself  out 

:r  through  her  boudoir  that  led  to  the  main 

te  elevator-boy  did  not  know  her  when  he  took 
flown,  and  she  did  not  speak.  She  staggered 
into  the  and  hailed  a  hansom,  ordering  the 

driver  to  take  her  to  the  Grand  Central  Depot. 

She  was  in  time  for  the  mid-day  train  to  Burton, 
and  did  not  pause  to  think  that  it  would  arrive  there 
in  the  night. 

She  took  her  seat  in  the  train  and  sunk  back  ex- 
ted,  trembling  in  every  limb,  and  yet  never 
ating  concerning  the  end  which  seemed  to  beckon 
her  invitingly. 

"I  shall  see  mother  and  Amy  once  more,"  she 
murmered,  again  and  again.  "And  I  shall  leave 
the  rest  to  God !" 

That  was  the  burden  of  her  thoughts.  She  did 
not  realize  that  the  day  was  fading  as  the  train  flew 
on  and  on.  She  did  not  realize  that  night  was  com- 
ing on,  and  that  with  it  a  great  cloud  \vas  growing 
in  the  east,  an4  a  low  rumble  of  thunder  indicated 
the  breaking  of  a  storm.  She  saw  nothing,  heard 
nothrng,  until  at  last  the  conductor  touched  her  on 
the  shoulder. 

'This  is  Burton,  madame,"  he  said  kindly.  "I 
fcope  there  will  be  some  one  at  the  station  to  meet 
you.  We  are  an  hour  late,  and  it  is  raining  cats 
and  dogs!" 


202  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

She  scarcely  heard  him.     She  arose  and  staggered 
out    into    the    darkness,    which    was    irradiated    now 
and  then  by  a  vivid  streak  of  zigzag  light  that  was 
blinding.     It  did   not  occur  to   her   to  remain   there 
in  the  little  station-room  until  the  breaking  of  the 
dawn,  but  drawing  the   little  scarf  she  wore  more  I 
closely  about  her,   she   went  out   into  the   lightning  | 
and  the  pouring  rain,  with  that  long,  lonely,  couhtryjl 
walk  before  her,  too  dazed  by  the  bewildering  voices 
in    her  brain  to  think    of  danger,    too  filled    with 
anguish  to  dream  of  fear. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Neither  Phil  nor  his  father  was  anxious  that  the 
rrass  should  grow  under  their  feet  in  the  matter  of 
discovering  the  real  culprit  who  had  forged  the  check 
bearing  Arnold  Landford's  signature  and  Phil's  in- 
dorsement. Both  understood  quite  well  enough  that 
the  information  they  wanted  was  in  the  possession 
of  Murphy,  the  bank  teller,  if  they  could  only  induce 
him  to  betray  the  secret  he  held;  but  how  to  accom- 
plish that  without  giving  warning  to  the  man  whom 
botli  were  now  forced  to  suspect,  was  a  problem 
which  neither  could  solve. 

In  their  dilemma  they  called  to  their  aid  early  the 
following  morning  a  detective  who  had  served  them 
in  emergencies  before,  and  detailed  the  situation  to 
him  calmly  and  minutely.  When  the  recital  had  been 
completed  he  threw  up  Ms  hands,  the  interest  upon 
his  countenance  intense. 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  2OJ 

*tt  is  a  plain  case/'  he  said,  in  a  low,  tense  voice. 
"It  certainly  sounds  the  most  extraordinary  thing 
under  the  sun  to  say  that  Arnold  Langford,  a  man 
against  whom  no  breath  of  scandal  has  ever  been 
raised,  should  have  forged  his  own  name  to  a  check 
•and  the  indorsement  of  your  son;  and  yet  there  is 
•absolutely  no  other  solution  of  the  mystery.  Crimi- 
nals always  overreach  themselves,  and  this  gentle- 
man overdid  that  when  he  came  to  your  wife  with 
the  story  he  did  in  order  to  obtain  her  co-operation 
in  the  matter  of  his  daughter's  marriage  with  your, 
son.  But  for  that,  I.  doubt  if  I  should  have  suspect- 
ed him  so  strongly.  If  you  are  willing,  sir,  to  place 
the  matter  entirely  in  my  hands,  I  think  I  can  run 
the  rascal  to  earth." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  summoned  you  for, 
Clarke!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Sumner,  Sr.,  earnestly.  "But 
there  is  one  thing  you  must  bear  in  mind.  The  day 
of  my  son's  marriage  is  rapidly  approaching.  He 
must  have  an  honorable ,  reason  for  breaking  his 
pledged  word." 

"I  think  he  will  have  an  honorable  reason,  sir/' 
returned  the  detective,  grimly.  "Say  nothing  to 
Murphy,  if  you  please,  sir,  until  I  request  that  you 
do  so." 

"I  shall  not  act  without  your  advice/' 

The  detective  took  his  leave — a  man  with  a  shrewd 
cast  of  countenance,  and  one  who  was  noted  for  his 
abilities  far  and  near.  He  had  been  successful  with' 
cases  where  there  appeared  to  be  no  clew  whatever 
in  the  beginning,  and  there  was  every  confidence 
felt  in  him  as  he  left  the  Sumner  residence  and  walked 
leisurely  down  the  street 


2O4  LIL,    THE    DANCING  GIRL 

It  was  not  later  than  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  as  he  looked  at  his  watch,  an  impulsive  resolu- 
tion seemed  to  be  formed,  for  he  wheeled  suddenly 
and  walked  quickly  in  the  other  direction.  He  was 
thinking  deeply,  so  deeply  that  a  coachman  was  com- 
pelled, at  a  street  crossing,  to  draw  up  his  horses  sud- 
denly to  prevent  running  over  him;  but  Clarke  was 
not  thinking  of  such  trivial  things. 

Whether  he  had  formed  a  decisive  plan  of  action 
or  not,  it  would  be  impossible  to  say,  for  the  expres- 
sion upon  his  countenance  was  rather  troubled  and 
uncertain;  still,  his  lips  were  grimly  set  as  he  mount- 
ed the  stoop  of  a  most  pretentious  brown-stone  resi- 
dence and  touched  the  bell. 

"Is  Mr.  Langford  at  home?''  he  asked  of  the  serv- 
ant. 

"I  think  so,  sir;  but — " 

"Say  that  it  is  a  man  who  wishes  to  see  him  upon 
business,"  interrupted  the  detective,  stepping  inside 
the  hall  before  the  servant  could  decline  to  allow 
him  to  enter. 

The  imperative  manner  made  its  own  impression, 
and  the  servant  conducted  the  detective  to  one  of  the 
smaller  reception-rooms,  asking  him  to  wait,  a  thing" 
which  Clarke  did  not  in  the  least  object  to  doing. 

There  was  nothing  that  escaped  his  acute  percep- 
tions, and  he  observed  that  it  was  at  a  door  almost 
adjoining  the  one  in  which  he  waited  that  the  serv- 
ant knocked. 

Ke  heard  Mr.  Langford's  voice  quite  distinctly 
as  he  bid  the  man  enter,  heard  the  servant  deliver 
his  message,  and  heard  the  reply : 

"I  am  engaged  now,  but  will  see  him  in  five  mm- 


LiL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL 

Utes  if  he  can  wait.     If  he  can't,  tell  him  to  call  at 
ihe  office  in  half  an  hour." 

The  servant  delivered  his  message.  The  detect- 
ive announced  his  intention  of  waiting-;  then,  when 
he  had  been  left  alone,  he  looked  about  him  care- 
fully. 

*     At  the  side  of  the  small   reception-room   lie  ob- 

j  served   an  entrance  to  the  conservatory,  and  going 

j  to  it,  he  saw  that  it  ran  down  the  side  of  the  house, 

so  that  every  room  upon  that  side  had  an  entrance 

to  it.  A  smile  of  satisfaction  crossed  his  countenance, 

and  walking  with  a  tread  that  was  rnarvelously  light, 

he  entered    there   among   the    flowers   and    stepped 

noiselessly  to  the  entrance  of  the  other  room  from 

which  he  had  heard  Arnold  Langforci's  voice. 

There  were  great  southern  palms  in  luxuriant  pro- 
fusion about  the  entrance,  which  formed  a  screen 
that  could  not  have  been  excelled,  and  from  under 
their  protection  Clarke  looked  into  the  room. 

It  was  the  library;  and  beside  the  desk,  with  their 
backs  toward  the  door  through  which  the  detective 
was  looking,  sat  Arnold  Langford  and  his  daughter 
£)live.  He  was  looking  en  intently  while  she  bent 
over  the  desk  and  wrote  with  infinite  care. 

i  While  Clarke  held  his  breath  and  watched,  she 
lifted  her  head,  as  if  from  a  laborious  effort,  and 
held  up  a  small  bit  of  paper  which  Clarke  had  no 
'difficulty  in  recognizing  as  a  check. 

Arnold  Langford  took  it  from  her  and  looked  at 
-it  critically,  comparing  it  with  another  paper  which 
he  held  in  his  hand. 

"The  end  of  the  'y'  is  not  just  right,"  he  ;aid, 
after  a  long  pause.  "The  imitation  is  most  excel- 


206  LIL.    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

lent,  but  a  clever  inspector  could  tell  the  difference. 
One  more  try  will  make  it  perfect,  I  think.  Take  a 
little  care  of  the  *H'  at  the  beginning  of  the  word, 
and  look  out  a  little  for  that  final  V ;  it  is  peculiar." 
"It  is  the  most  extraordinary  signature  I  ever- 
found,"  she  said,  wearily.  "I  hope  this  will  be  the 
last  one  I  shall  ever  have  to  copy.  It  is  risky  as 
.well  as  unpleasant." 

"It  will  be.  Old  Sumner  is  fabulously  wealthy, 
and  as  great  an  old  fool  as  ever  belied  the  name  of 
man.  Once  his  daughter,  if  you  don't  have  every 
'dollar  he  has  got  in  six  months,  you  are  a  greater 
fool  than  I  take  you  for." 

She  did  not  reply  to  his  speech,  but  shrugged  her 
shoulders  slightly  and  took  up  another  blank  check. 
She  took  the  paper  her  father  held  and  once  more 
scrutinized  the  signature  she  was  imitating,  then  laid 
the  paper  upon  the  desk  before  her  as  once  again' 
she  bent  over  her  task. 

The  expression  of  the  detective's  face  was  a  mar- 
vel. It  had  ceased  to  be  human  as,  screened  by  the 
palms,  he  eagerly  watched  the  scene. 

There  was  not  a  word  spoken.  Nothing  was 
heard  save  the  soft  movement  of  the  pen  across  the 
paper  as  the  check  was  filled  in  and  signed.  The 
silence  was  so  intense  as  to  be  almost  uncanny,  and 
once  or  twice  Clarke  found  himself  shivering  until 
he  feared  they  might  hear  the  movement. 

Then  again  Olive  passed  the  paper  to  her  father. 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction  crossed  his  face  as  he 
gazed  earnestly  at  it. 

"It  is  perfect!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  krvv  "one.     "S 


LIL,  TKE  DANCING-GIRL 

*wou)d  defy  Henry  Hastings  himself  to  say  that  it  is 
not  his  own  signature!" 

Clarke  started.  Henry  Hastings  was  one  of  the 
greatest  millionaires  in  the  metropolis. 

"Thanks,     chdrie,"     Arnold     Langford    went    on, 

/'But  for  my    accomplished    daughter   I    am  afraid 

'the  old  dad  would  have  been  still  the  poorly  paid 

lawyer  that  he  was  when  her  invaluable  talent  was 

discovered  as  a  mere  child/' 

kissed  her  and  arose,  looking  at  his  watch. 

''I  wonder  if  that -fellow  is  still  waiting  for  me?" 
he  continued,  folding  the  precious  paper  and  placing 
it  carefully  in  his  pocket-book.  ''Look  out  for  the 
things  here,  darling;  I  am  already  late/' 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  left  the  room  as  he  spoke, 
going  into  the  hall  with  a  light-hearted  whistle  upon 
his  lips.  He  evidently  looked  into  the  rooms  upon 
either  side  of  the  hall,  and  finding  no  one,  called 
back : 

"1  guess  he's  gone.    'An  revoir,  Olive/' 

"Oh!  wait  a  minute,  dad;  there  is  something  I 
"forgot!" 

She  had  been  piling  the  papers  into  a  little  heap — • 
the  discarded  check  in  which  the  "e's"  and  "s's"  were 
not  quite  right,  also  the  signature  from  which  the 
other  had  been  copied — evidently  preparing  to  take 
them  to  her  own  room  and  destroy  them.  She  left 
them  there  upon  the  desk  and  ran  into  the  hall. 

Quicker  than   thought,   the   detective   had   entered 

the   room.     He  seized  the  pile  of  papers,   thrust  it 

ly  into  his  pocket,  and  before  Olive  Langford 

reached  the  side  of  her  father,  Clarke  had  in  hl» 

>n   the  evidences  of  her  crime. 


S208  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GXEiti 

Noiselessly  he  slipped  back  into  fne  conservatory, 
glanced  hastily  about  him,  saw  the  door  that  led  to 
a  side  entrance,  and  as  Arnold  Langford  let  himself 
out  to  the  street  by  thb  front  door,  Clarke,  the  de- 
tective, reached  it  by  the  side  door. 

He  kept  himself  well  out  of  sight  until  Mr.  Lang-  < 
'ford  entered  his  luxurious  coupe  to  be  driven  to  his 
office,  then  rapidly  the  detective  turned  again  in  the  ' 
direction  of  the  Sumner  residence.     He  scarcely  sup-  | 
posed  that  he  would  find -father  and  son  still  there,  * 
but   Phil   was   just   descending   the   stoop   slowly   as 
the  detective  came  up. 

"Is  your  father  here?"  he  asked,  rather  hurriedly. 

"No,"   replied   Phil ;    "he  has  gone  to    the  office, 
"is  there  anything  special?     You  surely  can  not  have 
anything  to  report  so  soon." 

"But  I  have.  It  was  the  greatest  piece  of  luck 
that  ever  happened  me.  I  have  tracked  the  forger/' 

"Then  it  is  really  Arnold  Langford?"  asked  Phil, 
breathlessly. 

"No." 

"Then  who,  in  Heaven's  name?" 

*"It  is  Arnold  Langford's  daughter.  Olive  Lang- 
ford  is  the  forger." 

"Good  God !    You  can't  mean  it !" 

"But  I   do.      Come    with  me  and  I  will    explain    ; 
everything.     There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.     Just  ' 
hail  that  cab,  will  you?    I  haven't  got  breath  enough? 
left  to  whistle/' 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL  2CX| 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Phil  was  not  long  in  obeying  the  request  of  tne 
'detective.  They  sprung  into  the  cab,  gave  the  bank 
address  to  the  driver,  with  the  injunction  to  drive 
fast ;  and  as  they  bowled  over  the  rough  cobble-stone* 
Clarke  told  the  son  of  his  employer  of  the  phenome* 
nal  hick  that  had  attended  his  visit  to  the  home  of 
Arnold  Langford. 

Phil  listened  in  breathless  astonishment;  then,  when 
^he  recital  had  been  completed,  exclaimed  i 

"What  are  your  plans?" 

"Undoubtedly  the  girl  will  communicate  with  her 
father  the  moment  she  discovers  the  loss  of  the 
papers,  which  will  be  immediately  upon  her  return 
to  the  library.  My  plan  is  that  you  go  at  once  to 
his  office  and  prevent  her  seeing  him  or  his  cashing 
the  check  until  I  can  secure  a  warrant  for  his  ar- 
rest. I  want  to  complete  the  evidence  by  having 
the  forged  check  found  upon  him." 

Phil  sat  there  for  a  moment  in  silence,  gnawing 
his  mustache.  When  he  spoke,  both  voice  snd  man- 
ner were  singularly  quiet. 

"I  don't  think  the  scheme  is  a  good  one/' 

"Why   not?" 

"In  the  first  place,  the  pubMcity  that  will  be  given 
to  it  is  liable  to  make  trouble  for  the  bank.  In  times 
like  these  it  is  not  desirable  that  there  should  be  a 
run  on  the  bank;  and  you  know  that  anything  is 
liable  to  create  a  panic.  I  have  no  wish  to  advertise 
this  thing  any  more  than  justice  demands.  We  don't 
know  anything  about  their  past  crimes;  we  can  pre- 


!2IO  LIL,    THE    DANCINGS-GIRL 

tvent  the  one  in  present  contemplation,  so  that  itt 
reality  my  father  and  I  are  the  only  sufferers.  My 
own  opinion  is  that  we  had  better  make  him  ac- 
knowledge his  rascality,  resign  quietly  from  the  bank, 
and  he  and  his  family  get  out  of  £he  country  as 
jquickly  as  possible." 
>  The  detective  looked  disappointed. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right/'  he  said,  dubiously,  "but 
it  always  does  us  good  to  bring  those  fellows  up  with" 
a  round  turn  of  the  law.  If  he  were  a  poor  devil 
XK>  one  would  think  of  sparing  him;  but — " 

"It  is  not  he  so  much  as  the  bank  that  I  am  think- 
ing of,"  interrupted  Phil. 

"I  understand,  sir,  and  I  know  you  are  right,  though 
I  confess  it  goes  against  the  grain  to  allow  him  to  go 
(Unpunished." 

"He  won't  go  unpunished,  never  fear.  The  dis* 
-grace  will  sting  keenly  enough." 

"I  don't  believe  much  in  the  consciences  of  crim- 
inals. And  it's  a  narrow  enough  escape  you've  had, 
sir." 

"I  am  so  grateful  for  that  that  I  am  afraid  I  am 
•ready  to  allow  more  than  I  ought  to  the  man,"  an- 
swered Phil,  with  a  Httle  grin  of  relief  and  pleasure. 

"I  suppose  so.  But  here  we  are!  This  driver  has 
tnade  better  time  than  I  thought  he  could." 

They  sprung  from  the  carriage,  paid  the  driver,  then 
entered  the  bank.  There  was  an  expression  of  natural 
excitement  in  the  countenances  of  the  two  men,  and 
as  Phil  passed  the  door  of  his  father's  office  he  opened 
-It  and  thrust  his  head  inside. 

"Will  you  come  with  me  for  a  moment,  father?" 
fee  asked.  "Clarke  and  I  shall  need  you, 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL 

Halford  Sumner  arose  and  followed  them.  There 
was  an  expression  of  interrogation  upon  his  counte* 
nance;  but  the  clerks  were  standing  about,  and  he 
made  neither  comment  nor  asked  questions ;  but  Phil 
whispered,  as  they  stood  at  the  door  of  Arnold  Lang- 
ford's  private  office: 

"We've  nailed  our  man  quicker  than  any  of  uss 
hoped  for.  Clarke  holds  all  the  proofs." 

Before  Mr.  Sumner  could  do  more  than  look  his 
surprise  and  pleasure,  the  door  opened. 

"Halloo,  Phil!''  exclaimed  Arnold  Langford,  lightly, 
throwing  the  door  wide.  "Come  in,  my  boy!  I  say, 
I  hope  nothing  serious  has  occurred  that  you  file  in  in 
such  solemn  procession. " 

Halford  Sumner  did  not  speak.  He  was  pale  to 
the  lips,  and  stood  leaning  against  the  wall  rather  than 
taking  the  seat  which  Mr.  Langford  pushed  toward 
him.  Clarke,  the  detective,  also  stood  silent,  waiting 
ifor  Phil  to  take  the  initiative,  and,  after  an  expressive 
pause,  the  young  man  stepped  forward  with  sparkling 
eyes,  his  cheeks  crimson  under  his  excitement. 

"Something  serious  has  occurred,  Mr.  Langford,^ 
Ihe  said,  struggling  to  keep  his  voice  quite  calm. 

"Really!"  exclaimed  Langford,  affably,  the  light- 
ness vanishing  from  his  manner  somewhat,  though  no! 
suspicion  of  the  real  truth  had  dawned  in  his  mind. 
"You  rather  alarm  me.  Nothing  concerning  the  bank, 
I  hope?  Clarke's  presence — " 

"The  bank  must  always  be  more  or  less  invoked 
(when  the  rascality  of  one  of  its  members  is  discov- 
ered." 

"You  alarm  me.  Pray  go  on.  I  hope  it  is  none  of 
our  trusted  employes?" 


LI L,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

•  ''Murphy  is  interested  in  it,"  answered  Phil,  watch-- 
ing his  father's  partner  narrowly,  and  noting  the  ex- 
pression of  dismay  that  was  growing  in  his  eyes  and 
.which  he  was  striving  powerfully  to  conceal.  "You 
may  be  interested  to  know,  Mr,  Langford,  that  my 
father  has  told  me  the  story  of  the  forgery  in  which 
tny  name  was  associated.  He  assures  me  that  Murphy 
said  in  his  presence  that  I  had  presented  a  check  bear* 
ing  your  signature  and  my  own  indorsement  for. col- 
lection. Mr.  Langford,  Murphy  lied !  I  neither  pre- 
sented nor  ever  saw  the  check,  and  my  name  was  a 
forgery  to  that  precious  paper  as  well  as  your  own !" 

Langford  had  grown  white  now,  while  a  vivid  color 
faad  leaped  to  the  cheeks  and  lips  of  Halford  Sumner. 
«  "I  confess  that  you  surprise  me,  Phil;  but  how 
great  the  pleasure  is  I  need  not  tell  you,"  stammered 
Langfora,  uneasily. 

:     "I've  no  doubt,"  sneered  Phil.    "But  that  is  not  all, 
sir.    It  is  not  alone  Murphy  who  is  implicated  in  the 
unfortunate  affair.    I  believe  him  to  be  simply  the  tool 
of  a  more  accomplished  villiai?.." 
1     "You  don't  say!     And  whom  do  you  suspect?"     ' 

"It  is  not  suspicion,  but  certainty,  Mr.  Langford/' 
announced  Phil,  calmly.  "We  have  the  irrefutable 
proof  in  our  possession." 

"You  interest  rne,"  stammered  the  man,  his  voice 
growing  hoarse  and  dull,  his  eyes  becoming  blood-shot 
tinder  the  terrible  mental  strain. 

I     "You  will  be  more  interested.    Mr.  Langford,  I  will 
trouble  you  for  that  check  in  your  pocket  bearing  the 
name  of  Henry  Hastings,  which  your  daughter  Olive 
•forged  this  morning." 
-^It  would  be  impossible  to  say  which  man  appeared 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL 

the  more  startled  at  the  sudden  announcement,  Arnold 
Langford  or  his  old  partner.  But  there  was  astonish- 
ment in  the  countenance  of  one ;  guilt,  cringing  shamei 
in  that  of  the  other. 

.      For  a  moment  Arnold  Langford  stood  there  like 
the  criminal  at  bay,  then  he  flung  up  his  head  haught- 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  demanded.  "Is 
it  the  forger  who  is  trying  to  play  an  even  game  ?  I 
might  find  some  pity  in  my  heart  if  you  had  striven  to 
fasten  a  crime  upon  me ;  but — my  daughter — " 

"This  is  utterly  useless,  sir!"  exclaimed  Phil.  "I 
tell  yen  the  proof  is  conclusive.  Clarke  was  a  witness 
of  the  entire  scene  that  took  place  in  your  library  this 
morning,  and  has  in  his  possession  at  this  moment  all 
the  paptrs  that  were  used  in  the  imitation  of  the  sig- 
nature — even  to  the  discarded  check  to  which  you 
fonnd  objections,  stating  that  there  was  a  mistake  in 
the  formation  of  some  of  the  letters.  You  see- 
But  before  he  could  complete  the  sentence  the  door 
was  opened  hurriedly,  and  Olive  Langford  stood  upon 
the  threshold.  She  was  pale  almost  to  ghastliness. 
She  stopped  suddenly  as  she  saw  who  it  was  the  roorrr 
contained,  but  Phil  stepped  forward  almost  at  once. 
"Will  you  not  come  in,  Miss  Langford?"  he  said, 
coldly.  "You  have  come  to  deliver  an  important  mes- 
sage to  your  father.  Will  you  not  permit  me  to  do  it 
for  you  ?  It  is  that  the  papers  which  you  left  upon  the 
library  desk  this  morning  while  you  went  to  speak  to 
him  for  a  moment  in  the  hall  have  disappeared.  Is 
rot  that  your  message,  Miss  Langford?" 

Her  face  had  turned  from  pale  to  a  dull  greenisK 


DANCING-GIRL 

blue.  The  lines  had  deepened  about  the  mouth,  and 
great  circles  had  grown  under  her  eyes. 

Clarke  had  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  she  stag- 
gered back  against  it,  her  gloved  hand  pressed  con-* 
vulsively  upon  her  bosom.  No  further  evidence  would 
have  been  required  of  her  guilt. 

Her  father  strove  to  come  to  her  rescue. 

"This  is  an  infernal  plot!"  he  cried,  wildly.  "It  is 
a  plot  to  cover  your  own  crime,  and — " 

"We  will  drop  all  that !"  commanded  Phil,  sternly. 
"'You  are  lying  to  cover  your  infamy;  but  it  cavi  do 
no  good.  For  the  sake  of  the  bank,  and  also  for  that 
of  a  woman  who  demands  our  sympathy  only  because 
cf  her  sex,  we  are  willing  to  spare  you,  provided  you 
kave  the  country  immediately  after  resigning  your 
position  here.  You  know  our  ultimatum.  We  will 
leave  you  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  your  daughter; 
bv;t  you  must  decide  upon  your  future  course  before 
you  leave  this  building.  And  you  must  deliver  to  me 
the  check  which  is  at  present  in  your  possession.  If 
that  check  is  destroyed,  or  you  decline  any  of  my 
terms,  you  shall  be  at  once  handed  over  to  the  police, 
and  you  will  be  forced  to  stand  your  trial  as  a  com- 
rr/on  criminal !" 

He  bowed  slightly  and  left  the  room  by  another 
door,  followed  by  his  father  and  Clarke.  They  went 
to  the  office  of  Mr.  Sumner,  Sr.,  to  await  the  reply  of 
Mr.  Langford  and  to  discuss  the  situation;  but  Phil 
could  take  little  interest  in  the  future  of  either  Arnold 
Langford  or  his  daughter.  There  was  but  one  thought 
that  seemed  to  occupy  his  entire  mental  capacity. 
That  was : 

"I  must  see  Lil.     1  vi!1  <be  true  to  my  own  heart 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL 

now.     Thank  God  I  have  been  saved  from  beittg  an 
utter  scoundrel,  for  her  dear  sake  1" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

With  tottering  steps  Lil  staggered  out  of  the  little 
station  into  the  darkness  and  the  storm,  the  fever  in 
her  veins  alone  giving  her  strength  to  face  the  bat- 
tling elements.  She  was  shivering  with  cold,  he$! 
teeth  chattering,  her  hands  burning  with  the  inward 
fire  that  seemed  consuming  her.  $ 

If  she  had  not  been  familiar  with  every  foot  of  the 
old  way  that  she  had  traversed  so  often  in  childhood, 
she  would  never  have  reached  the  isolated  little  cabin ; 
but  she  staggered  on,  evidently  by  intuition,  alcme. 
Once  or  twice  her  dragging  feet  caught  in  a  stone,  and 
she  fell  forward  upon  her  face  in  the  soft  mud,  and 
twice,  when  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  weight  had 
grown  too  great  for  her  to  carry  further,  she  sat  down 
upon  the  hill-side  that  girted  the  road,  oblivious  ofi 
the  pouring  rain  and  the  jagged  lightning;  then 
wearily,  weakly,  blindly,  she  took  up  the  march! 
again.  * 

It  was  an  indescribable  feeling,  that  which  possessed 
her.  She  seemed  to  have  no  plan  formed.  There 
•was  only  that  wild,  impelling  longing  to  get  home 
once  more,  that  unreasoning  desire  to  look  upon  their 
faces,-  that  delirious  hope  that  her  father  might  unsay 
the  words  that  clung  in  her  brain  with  maddening 
persistence.  It  may  have  been  of  the  effect  of  the 
Sever,  perhaps  was,  but  she  never  paused  to  question.; 


2l6  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

It  never  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  inviting  death ; 
but  she  would  have  gone  on  just  the  same  if  it  had, 
for  there  was  no  terror  in  death  for  her.  There  had 
been  a  sudden  period  put  after  happiness  for  her.  r 
Tnere  was  but  one  thought  that  flamed  before  her 
mental  sight.  It  was  that  her  father  should  recall  the 
curse  he  ha3  spoken,  and  then: — oblivion ! 

It  was -a  long  walk — long  when  there  were  nodding 
flowers  to  look  upon  and  with  a  companion  by  one's 
side;  long  when  the  trees  made  quaint  shadows,  witK 
the  sun  behind  them;  long  in  the  heavenly  twilight  of 
a  balmy  evening;  but  with  the  rain  pouring  in  torrents, 
and  the  lightning  playing  in  ragged  flashes  about  one's 
feet,  and  the  thunder  rolling  like  the  sound  of  close 
artillery,  it  seemed  never  ending.  Still  she  did  not 
give  it  up. 

She  lifted  her  heavy  head  at  last,  when  the  stray  • 
gray  rays  of  early  dawn  were  just  stealing  through 
the  blackened  sky,  and  in  the  distance  saw  the  silent 
ray  of  a  lonely  candle  flickering  through  a  window. 

It  was  like  the  welcome  beckon  of  a  hand  from 
home. 

She  stopped  under  a  tree  and  drew  the  light, 
drenched  scarf  about  her  shoulders  convulsively,  he* 
breath  coming  in  little  hysterical  gasps. 

She  tried  to  run,  but  the  mud  and  her  own  weak- 
ness held  her  steps  as  if  with  ball  and  chain ;  but  she 
dragged  herself  on  wearily,  never  removing  her  eyes 
from  that  welcome  candle.  Once  it  disappeared,  as  if 
some  one  had  carried  it  to  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
and  a  quivering  sob  arose  to  her  lips ;  but  she  smiled 
feebly  when  it  was  returned  to  its  place  in  the  window. 

Her  clothing,  heavy  with  rain,  clung  about  her  like 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL 

a  stone  to  the  neck  of  the   ciro  n  the 

spark  of 

If  en,  falling  and  rising,  until  her  c! 
would   scare-  recognized   her,   covered 

:  and  mud  a-  .;e  lovely  auburn 

blackened.     And  then — she   reached  the 

IOW. 

Shu  *o  the  side  of  the  house,  to  the  window 

in  which  the  light  rested,  and,  i   up 

I  frail  remnant  of  al  ked  in. 

upon  the  bed,  propped  up  with  pil- 
T  mother  bent  over  her  sadh 

The  sight — of  home,  of  mother,  cf  too 

much  for  the  outcast,  denied  e\  that 

from  the  ta'  great,  gasping  sob  arose  to 

her  lips.     ?!  her  hand  and  laid  it  against  the 

;,  >ane,  intending  to  knock;  but  tl; 
denu  he  fell  back,  away  from  the 

:e  down  i  the 

mud,  the  rain  beating  upon  the  back  of  her  hea 
tin  for 

It  was   rather  later  than  usual  that  morning  when 
nonde  opened  the  door  of  'ien,  the 

room  adjoining  the  one  in  which  Amy  lay.  The  child 
had  been  given  a  room  on*  the  ground-floor  at  her  own 
request,  because  the  ere  tco  much  for  her  to 

d  in  the  night  her  mother  had  been  sum- 
mono  ^e  of  one 'of  those  "bad  turns"  that  were 

frequent  n 

It  wa?  a  vcr  red  face,  that  which  :t  in 

the  early  mornin;  j'iere 

\nthckitchendoor.     S  pale,  ca  haggard, 

in  the  soft  hair  that 


LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

hacT  not  been  there  when  Lillian  was  at  home  on  her 
vacation  visit.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  up  at 
the  still  darkened  sky,  though  the  rain  had  ceased, 
then  she  glanced  about  her. 

Her  eye  rested,  with  a  little  start,  upon  the  human 
form  that  lay  there  under  the  window,  and  with  a  cry; 
of  alarm  she  went  toward  it  quickly  and  lifted  it  up. " 
A  cry  of  horror  left  her  lips  that  rang  through  the 
little  building,  bringing  Jonathan  Esmonde  to  her  side. 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  he  demanded,  as  he  saw  her 
half  kneeling  there,  supporting  the  body  of  a  woman. 

"For  God's  sake,  come  quick !  Oh,  it  can't — it  can't 
be— Lillian!" 

The  hardness  of  old  Jonathan  Esmonde's  counte- 
nance deepened.  He  strode  forward  has-tily  and  ga^ed 
down  into  the  soiled  face  which  his  wife  had  lifted/ 
Even  in  that  condition  it  required  but  one  glance  to 
tell  him  the  truth,  that  it  was  really  his  daughter,  his 
first-born,  who  lay  there  like  a  dead  thing. 

"Is  she — dead?"  he  ejaculated,  hoarsely. 

"No/5  answered  the  woman,  with  her  hand  upon 
the  feebly  pulsating  heart.  "Help  me,  father!  Hdp 
roe  to  carry  her  in.  Quick !" 

He  lifted  himself.  Granite  could  not  have  been 
harder,  colder,  grayer  than  his  face. 

"Not  into  my  house!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  that 
fnatcfied  his  appearance.  "Not  into  my  house!  1 
hoped  she  was  dead,  but  since  the  Lord  has  denied  me 
that,  she  will  lay  there  until  the  town  authorities  take 
her  where  she  belongs." 

"Jonathan  Esmonde,  ye  can't  know  what  you  air  a- 
talkin'  about!"  cried  the  horrified  woman,  glancing 


LIL,   THE   DANCING-GIRL  21$ 

tip  at  him.    "Ye  must  be  mad !    This  is  yer  own  child, 
yer  own  flesh  an*  blood!" 

*4Xot  mine!"  he   exclaimed,  wildly.     "Never  agin! 
She  brung  the  first  shadder  o'  disgrace  that  ever  dim- 
med the  name.     She  is  a  thing  that  no  good  woman 
id  lech.     I  told  ye  before,  an'  I  tell  ye  now,  that 
girl  is  nothing  to  me." 

it  you  wouldn't  turn  out  a  dog  like  this!"  cried 

nonde,  passionately.    *'Ye  wouldn't  turn  out  a 

sick  an'  helpless  an'  homeless!      Ye  can't  have 

.eart,  Jonathan   Esmonde!     God  never  intended 

ye  should  chose  yer  own  offsprings.     He   give 

'ye  this  one,  an'  ye  ain't  no  right  to  disown  her  when 

she  needs  yer  help.     Help  me  t'  carry  her,  Jonathan, 

-" 

"Never:"  he  interrupted,  brutally.     "I  tell  you  she 
1  darken  no  door  of  mine.     She  is  a  har — " 
peak  that  word,  an'  the  curse  o'  God  be  upon 
'shrieked  the  woman,  rising  suddenly  and  fling- 
ing out  her    hand  dramatically.     "An'  even  ef  it  was 
true,  Jonathan  Esmonde,  she    is  your  child    just    the 
same.     Would  you  be  the  first  to  throw  a  stone  after 
your  girl  into  the  grave?  Would  you  be  the  first  to  stop 
hfr  entrance  into  heaven?     Whatever  siie  is,  she  is 
your  child  an'  mine !    What  did  we  do  to  make  home 
pleasant  fur  her?    You  drove  her  out  with  your  hard- 
ness an*  coldness,  as  you  are  drivin'  our  other  one  into 
her  grave.      I've  been  obedient  t'  yer  will  done  as 
ve  ordered,  been  like  ye,  maybe,  jist  as  hard  and 
hearted,  but  you're  aroused  the  mother  in  me  at 
Jonathan  Esmonde !    What  right  have  ye  to  call 
thrt  fiouse  youmf    Ain't  I  toiled  and  worked  the  same 
*s  you?      Ain't  I  shared  every  hardship?     Ain't   I 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

saved  and  scrimped  and  slaved  from  dawn  till  dark? 
Do  you  git  all  an'  I  git  nothin'?'  That  house  is  as 
much  mine  as  it  is  yourn,  Jonathan  Esmonde,  an'  my 
daughter  goes  into  the  old  room  where  she  wus  born. 
Ef  you  air  ashamed  to  own  her,  /  ain't!  She's  my 

child,  an*   ef  she  is  denied  the  home  that  is  hers  by 

j ,  i 

right  of  birth,  ef,  by  brute  force  you  prevent  her  en- 
trance there,  then  I  go  too!  I  shall  never  darken  that 
door  again  until  she  goes  with  me !  I  am  a  mother  !— 
a  mother  as  has  her  rights,  though  God  knows  she  has 
been  silent  too  long.  Stand  aside,  Jonathan  Esmonde ! 
Ef  you  won't  help  me  to  carry  the  daughter  that  be- 
longs to  us  both  into  the  house  that  belongs  as  much 
to  me  as  to  you,  then  I  can  do  it  myself." 

She  lifted  the  frail  burden  in  her  arms,  staggering 
under  it,  it  is  true,  but  never  wavering  in  her  deter- 
mination. There  was  a  look  in  the  eyes  that  had 
never  met  his  before,  save  in  subservience,  that  the  old 
man  dared  not  question,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  Jonathan  Esmonde  was  daunted. 

He  stood  aside.  He  did  not  offer  to  touch  the  bur- 
den she  bore.  He  watched  her  totter  under  it  into  the 
kitchen  and  disappear  into  Amy's  room.  He  shivered 
when  he  heard,  the  cry  that  told  him  Amy  had  recog- 
snzed  her  sister. 

He  stood  there,  sullen,  with  his  hands  stuffed  deep 
into  his  pockets — forgotten,  while  his  wife  got  mustard 
and  hastily  prepared  homely  remedies  for  her  eldest 
born;  then  she  came  into  the  kitchen  again  and  took 
£ier  sun-bonnet  from  the  peg  upon  the  wall. 

"Where  be  ye  goin'?"  he  asked,  huskily,  as  she 
would  have  passed  him. 

"Fur  the  doctor !"  she  answered,  briefly. 


LIL,   THE   DANCIXG-GIRL  22 1 

put  out  his  hand  suddenly  and  placed  it  upon 
iioukler. 

"Go    back  to— her!"   he   exclaimed,   dully.      "She 
needs  you.    /'//  go  fur  the  doctor!" 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


From  the  tortures  of  a  blind  despair  to  the  happi- 
ness of  a  bewildering  hope  is  a  tremendous  leap,  and 
•when  it  comes  upon  one  suddenly  the  excess  is  almost 
painful. 

It  was  so  with  Philip  Sumner,  and  when  he  found 
himself  at  liberty  to  go  to  Lil,  to  tell  her  of  the  wild 
joy  that  lay  before  them  in  the  futare,  he  could 
scarcely  control  himself,  but  with  crimson  cheeks  and 
dancing  eyes  he  left  the  bank  and  almost  staggered 
into  the  street.  He  called  a  cab,  and  without  the  lass 
of  a  moment  hurried  away  to  the  Belleamie  to  tell  her 
of  the  joyous  tidings. 

One  would  scarcely  have  recognized  the  debonair 
young  clubman  in  the  wildly  excited  boy  that  sprung 
into  the  elevator  and  bid  the  boy  take  him  to  the  floor 
upon  which  Lil's  flat  was  located,  and  it  seemed  to 
his  impatience  an  age  before  his  ring  at  the  bell  was 
Ted. 

He  was  too  much  excited  even  to  observe  the  as- 
pect of  confusion  that  hung  over  the  apartment,  but 
sprung  quickly  by  the  maid  and  entered  the  dancing- 
room,  in  the  center  of  which  he  saw  Paul  Chetwynd 
standing. 

He  took  the  hand  of  the  dancing-master,  pressing  it 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

warmly,  and  endeavoring  to  conceal  something  of  his 
own  joy  out  of  respect  for  the  other  man's  sorrow. 

"1  have  news  for  you,  old  man/'  he  said,  striving 
to  control  his  eagerness.  "I  know  you  will  be  glad 
for — for  her  sake.  It  seems  the  most  heartless  thing 
tinder  heaven  to  expect  you  of  all  men  to  congratulate 
me,  and  yet  1  know  you  will  from  the  very  unselfish- 
ness of  your  disposition/' 

He  paused  a  moment  from  inability  to  continue, 
A  brilliant  color  had  leaped  to  Chetwynd's  cheeks. 
•He  grasped  the  young  man's  arm  with  fingers  that- 
clutched  like  a  vice.  His  voice  was  so  hoarse  that 
Phil  could  scarcely  understand  the  words  that  he 
spoke. 

"Then  she  is  with  you?"  he  gasped.  "For  God's 
sake,  speak!  The  suspense  is  almost  maddening/' 

"With  me?     What  do  you  mean?" 

A  wild  fear  had  taken  the  place  of  eagerness  to 
Phil's  eyes,  and  he  gazed  at  Chetwynd  breathlessly. 

"She  has  gone!" 

"You  can't  mean  Lil?" 

"Yes/' 

"But  where?    Why?" 

"Heaven  alone  knows !  She  was  in  rid  condition  to 
have  gone  anywhere  alone,  being  weaker  and  more 
thoroughly  upset  than  at  any  time  since  her  convales- 
cence. Had  you  heard  of  her  betrothal  to  Kirk  Malt- 
land?'5' 

"Maitland?    Good  God,  no!" 

"He  came  to  her  with  some  infernal  lie,  I  think* 
At  all  events,  he  worked  upon  her  weakness  until  he 
had  obtained  her  consent  to  become  his  wife.  She 
loathed  him,  and  I  am — -afraid — afraid — " 


"LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL 

"Afraid— of  what?"  whispered  Phil,  scarcely  able 
to  control  his  articulation. 

Chetwynd  did  not  reply  in  words.  He  looked  the 
younger  man  straight  in  the  eye,  and  an  awful  silence 
followed.  Phil  was  the  first  to  shake  off  self.  He 
stemed  to  be  endeavoring  to  shake  off  some  horrible 
influence,  and  cried  out,  hoarsely: 

"I  won't  believe  it.  I  can't  believe  it.  Have  you 
seen  Maitland?  Perhaps  he  knows." 

"Xo,  I  have  not  seen  him,  but  I  am  sure  he  knows 
nothing.  She  would  never  have  gone  to  him  without 
letting  me  know.  There  is  but  one  hope  that  I  can 
see,  and  that  so  forlorn  as  to  be  well-nigh  impossible. 
She  may  have  gone  home.  In  her  weakened  condition 
it  would  have  been  next  to  useless  for  her  to  attempt 
the  journey  alone,  and  yet — " 

"The  clew  is  worth  working  upon!"  cried  Phil, 
hing  at  any  hope  however  frail.  "I  will  telegraph 
at  once  to  Jonathan  Esmonde.  Then  we  must  see 
Maitland.  I  do  not  trust  him,  curse  him!" 

'Trust  him  ?"  cried  Chetwynd.  "I  should  as  soon 
think  of  trusting  the  devil  himself.  There  is  not  a 
moment  to  lose.  Come !" 

They  left  the  room  together,  and  as  they  went  to 
\  the  telegraph-office,  Phil  briefly  outlined  to  this  new- 
i!  made  friend  what  had  taken  place  since  he  had  last 
I  seen  him. 

Chetwynd  placed  his  hand  upon  the  younger  man's 
arm  with  a  warmth  that  was  remarkable. 

"God  knows  I  hope  you  may  find  her!"  he  ex- 
claimed with  emotion.  "Dearly  as  I  love  her,  much  o£ 
JDV  life  at  «he  has  become,  I  would  rob  neither  of  you 


224  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

of  one  moment  of  your  happiness.     Oh,  if  this  hatf 
but  happened  yesterday  I" 

They  entered  the  telegraph  office  together  and  sen! 
their  message  to  Jonathan  Esmonde : 

"Has  your  daughter  Lillian  returned  home?  She 
has  left  New  York  suddenly  and  without  explanation. 
Her  friends  are  anxious  for  her  safety.  Please  answer 
at  once  at  my  expense." 

"PAUL  CHETWYND." 

The  address  followed,  and  that  was  all. 

It  arrived  in  Burton  late  in  the  evening  and  was 
not  delivered  until  very  nearly  noon  of  the  next  day. 
Jonathan  Esmonde  was  standing  moodily  at  the  gate, 
his  arms  folded  upon  the  top,  his  back  bent  more  than 
ever,  his  face  graver  and  more  haggard,  when  he  saw 
the  man  approaching  \vitli  a  yellow  envelope  in  his 
hand.  An  expression  of  subdued  interest  lighted  his 
eyes, 

"A  telegram  fur  ye,  Jonathan !"  the  man  exclaimed. 
"Ain't  no  pervision  made  down  thar  at  Burton  fur  de- 
liver'n'  'em  so  fur,  'n  ole  Anthony  axed  me  ef  I 
wouldn't  fetch  it,  as  I  wus  comin'  this  away.  Tain'fc 
nuthin'  t'  git  skeered  about.  I  axed  "Anthony  what 
wur  in  it,  an*  he  'lowed  'twus  about  your  darter 
com  in'  home/' 

Jonathan  Esmonde  put  out  his  hand  and  took  the 
telegram  uneasily.  His  face  ha<^  darkened  again,  a 
cold,  steely  determination  growing  in  his  eyes  even 
before  he  had  read  it, 

"Thankee,"  he  said,  sullenly.  "They  ain't  got  no 
right  t'  send  'em  ef  they  can't  deliver  *em." 

He  turned  his  back  upon  the  man  who  had  obliged 


LIL,   THE    DAXII^-GIRL  22$ 

him  and  walked  in  the  direction  ot  the  isolated,  lonely; 
locking  house.  \Yith  trembling  hands  he  tore  the  mes- 
sage open  and  read  it  through  twice,  then  crushed  it 
remorselessly  in  his  great  bony  hands. 

A  curious  exprc>^on  1  countenance. 

It  was  such  a  one  as  a  hungry  wolf  might  have  when 
he  sees  prey  before  him.  c-aks  of  blood 

in  hi  were  white  arid  compressed.     He 

looked  hungrily  through  the  window  of  the  little  house. 
Back  a  trifle  from  it  ;  daughter  Lillian 

l;ic  chair  the  house  con- 
tain-, is  thrown 
bad  lie  looked  with  a  little,  tremulous,  ev 

ile  into  the  face  of  the  mother  who  bent  over 
her.     At  he:-  sat,  holding  the  whit-?  arrncst 

transparent  hand  tenderly. 

an  Esmonde  had  no  part  in  that  scene.     lie 
•;ne — aloof   from  the  only  things  upon  earth' 
that  were  dear  to  him.     He  stood  there  and  watched 
with  a  strange  gnawing  at  his  heart — the  gnawirigs  of 
jeai*  first  he  had  ever  felt  in  all  his  self-en- 

compassed life,  and  the  strangest  of  all 

the  emotions,  for  it  humanizes  ji-?t  as  often  as  it  bru- 
tali. 

-i     It  would  have  been  impossible  to  read  the  thoughts 
jthat   traveled    with    wonderful    rapidity   through   his 
j  brain,  but  his  hand  clinched  more  tightly  over  the  little 
yellow  paper,  and  after  those  long  moments  of  inac- 
tivity   and    indecision,    he    turned    away    and    strode 
quickly  toward  the  stable. 

"Paddle  Black  Jack,  Reuben,"  he  said,  curtly.     "I 
am  a-goin'  t'  ride  t*  town." 

T-te  man  had  lived  too  long  in  that  family  to  ask 


226  LIL;   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

questions,  but  did  as  he  was  bidden  without  a  murmur. 
Jonathan  swung  himself  into  the  saddle  with  surpris- 
ing alacrity  for  one  of  his  apparent  age,  and  giving 
the  horse  a  cut  with  a  peach-tree  switch  that  made 
little  enough  impression  upon  the  thick  hide,  he  rode 
out  of  the  yard. 

"I  wonder  where  father  be  a-goin'?"  mused  Mrs. 
Esmonde,  aloud,  as  she  saw  him  swinging  down  tha 
road  at  a  gait  that  was  remarkable  for  him. 

Lillian  lifted  her  head,  but  allowed  it  to  fall  back 
again  wearily. 

"I  don't  know,'*  she  said,  faintly.  "Oh,  mother,  do 
you  suppose  he  will  ever  forgive  me?  Do  you  sup- 
pose he  will  ever  forgive  you  for  allowing  me  to  come 


Mrs.  Esmonde  placed  her  hand  gently  upon  the 
pretty  hair,  and  kissed  her  daughter  upon  the  cheek. 

"Father  furgive  us  both,  dearie,  when  he  went  aftefl 
the  doctor/7  she  said,  tenderly.  "It  ain't  easy  fur 
him  to  say  it,  but  it'll  come  in  time,  never  fear.  It 
wus  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  father  ever  furgive 
anybody  fur  anything,  and  he  ain't  learned  yit  to  do-  it 
very  neatly." 

There  \vere  tears  in  Lillian's  eyes  which  prevented 
a  reply;  but  she  would  not  have  put  much  faith  in  her 
mother's  words  could  she  have  seen  the  expression 
of  her  father's  face  as  he  rode  rapidly  in  tlie  direction 
of  Burton. 

His  lips  were  still  set,  his  eyes  glassy  under  his 
determination,  his  grip  upon  the  bridle  an  evidence 
of  the  feeling  that  oppressed  him. 

He  alighted  in  front  of  the  depot  where  the  tele- 
graph-office was  located,  and  entered.  Then  in  a 


L1L,   THE    DANCING-GIRL  22'f 

hand  wrote  his  message,  addressing  it  according   to 
the  directions  that  had  been  given. 

"My  daughter  Lillian  ain't  here/' 

"JONATHAN  ESMONDS." 

He  looked  at  the  lie  which  he  had  written  grii 
a  smile  of  satisfaction  crossing  his  face.     He 
amount  that  was  demanded,  and  sent  it  upon  its 
§ion. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

But  Phil  had  made  no  allowances  for  delays  that 
might  occur  at  Burton. 

lie  tried  at  first  to  wait  patiently,  but  as  the  h 
lengthened,  a   very  agony  of  unrest  oppressed  hi-n. 
lie  dragged  through  a  turbulent  night  with  Chetu 
neither  of  them  endeavoring  to  sleep,  and  \\ 
day  broke  he  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

Maitland  appeared  early  in  the  morning  for  r.r 
but   neither  of  them  was  in  a  mood  to  receive 
kindly,  and  he  went  about  his  own  business,  inventing 
means  of  his  own  for  discovering  the  whereabouts  of 
the  woman  he  loved  as  well  as  his  selfish  nature  could 
love  any  one,  while  Phil  turned  with  impatient  energy 
to  Chetwynd. 

"This    silence,  this  delay,  is  maddening!''   lie 
claimed.     "To  endure  it  longer  is  simply  impossible. 
I  am  going  to  Burton." 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  that." 

"Then  you  will  come  witk  me?" 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

"No.  One  of  us  must  remain  here.  Some  one 
might  be  needed  upon  the  spot  at  any  moment.  You 
go.  1  rather  fancy  there  must  be  something  of  im- 
portance there,  or  even  that  old  hog  of  a  father  of 
hers  would  send  some  sor,t  of  a.  reply.  I  will  have  a 
telegram  there  for  you  upon  your  arrival,  detailing  th$ 
news  from  here  if  there  should,  be  any,  and  you  caff, 
send  a  message  from  there  as  soon  as  you  know  ally* 
thing/* 

"I  feel  as  if  I  were  deserting  you/' 

"Nonsense!    Your  duty  is  to  her,  not  to  me.* 

"I  wonder  if  there  Is  another  man  in  the  world  so 
unselfish  as  you,  Chetwynd?" 

"I  am  no  different  from  any  man  who  deserves  the 
name,  my  boy.  I  love  our  little  Lil,  and  her  happiness 
is  the  dearest  thing  in  all  the  world  to  me,  as  it  would 
be  to  any  man  who  really  loved  her.  Do  you  think  I 
would  allow  you  to  rob  me  of  her  if  there  were  a  ghost 
cf  a  show  that  I  might  ever  win  her  heart?  But  I 
know  there  is  not  She  loves  you,  and,  thank  God!  I 
Relieve  you  are  worthy  of  her.  I  know  your  faults 
perhaps  as  well  as  you  do  yourself,  but  they  2 re  not  so 
serious  that  I  shall  fear  to  trust  her  to  you  if — if  she 
is  ever  restored  to  us  again." 

Phil  wrung  the  dancing-master's  hand  without  reply 
in  words.  There  was  that  awful,  silencing  fear  upon 
him  again  that  perhaps  she  was  beyond  them  forever, 
a  thought  which  he  dared  not,  could  not  voice. 

He  took  the  morning  train  for  Burton,  hoping 
against  hope,  fearing,  dreading,  praying  as  he  had  not 
Brayed  since  he  was  a  boy  kneeling  at  his  mother's 
side.  He  was  not  awkward  before  that  Great  Pres- 
as  he  would  have  been  if  less  in  earnest,  but 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL;  223 

prayed  with  a  fervor  that  must  have  touched  the  ever* 

..n£  Father. 

For  cnce  the  train  was  on  time  when  it  reached 

Burton,  and  Phil's  heart  beat  with  a  stifling  sort  of 

ftalt  hope  as   he  leaped  to  the  platform  and  turned 

.bout  him  for  some  sort  of  conveyance  that 

Id  take  him  to  the  home  of  Jonathan  Esmonde. 

,  a  man  with  a  much  worn  buggy,  and  hast- 

:costed  him. 

'Take  ye  tu  Jonathan  Esmonde's!"  exclaimed  the 

eld  fellow,  drawing  in  his  lips  and  closing  one  eye  to 

:cle  the  too  great  glare   of   the   afternoon   sun. 

y,  Jonathan  wus  m  town  'bout  half  a  hour  ago." 

'"'Is  he  here  now,  do  you  think?" 

"o.    Seed  him  a-goin'  up  the  pike  at  er  gallop  that 
one  credit  t'  a  boss  jockey.    Think  mebby  he  wus 
urter  the  doctor.     Darter's  sick,  they  say." 
"Which  one?    Miss  Amy?"     . 
"She's  alters  sick  more  er  less.     Lillian  kim  home 
t'uther  night,  an'  they  du  say  she  kim   mighty  nigh 
hevm'  neumonie.     Walked  home  frum  the  station  in  . 
the  pcurin*  rain.    I  hearn  's  morin'  she's  better.    Won-* 
der  ef  Jonathan  could  'a  '  bin  arter  the  doctor?" 
"Is  there  a  telegraph-office  near  here  ?" 
"Right  thar  in  the  station." 
"Wait  for  me  a  moment,  will  you?" 
Phil  did  not  stay  for  a  reply.     He  sprung  toward 
the  station  and  sent  a  telegram  flying  to   Cbetwynd: 

"She  is  here,  ill,  but  alive,  thank  God! 

"SUMNER/* 

Then  hastily  he  rejoined  the  man  in  the  dilapidate? 

brggy. 


23O  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

'Til  pay  you  double  your  price  if  you  .will  make  all 
the  speed  possible!"  he  cried,  sharply.  "I- must  get  to 
Jonathan  Esmonde's  as  quickly  as  it  can  be  done." 

Greed  was  a  characteristic  of  most  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Burton,  and  this  man  was  no  exception  to  the! 
general  run.     He  whipped  the  poor  old  horse  into  an] 
r.nusual  exertion,  and  even  then  reached  only  a  paca  : 
"which  would  have  tortured  Phil  had  not  his  'anxiety 
been  somewhat  relieved  by  the  loquacious  driver. 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west  when  the  little! 
cabin  was  sighted,  and  it  seemed  to  the  impatient  lover 
that  a  palace  had  never  looked  so  lovely  to  him  as  did 
the  outline  of  that  little  log-house.  He  controlled  his!" 
excitement,  however,  until  they  were  near  the  house; 
then,  unable  to  wait  until  the  horse  could  go  around 
by  the  regular  road,  he  sprung  out  and  walked  rapidly 
up  the  foot-path  that  he  had  learned  to  know  so  well 
a  few  weeks  before,  and  up  to  the  little  front  door. 

Jonathan  Esmonde  must  have  scented  danger  in  the 
atmosphere,  for  before  Phil  had  reached  the  cottage, 
the  old  man  stood  in  the  door,  the  expression  of  hid 
face  resembling  nothing  so  much  as  the  sharpened  fea* 
tures  of  a  blood-hound. 

"What  air  you  a-doin'  here?"  he  snarled.  "Ain'ii 
you  done  harm  enough  already?  What  air  you  a- 
comin'  after  now?" 

"I  have  come  td  see  your  daughter  Lillian/3  an- 
swered Phil,  boldly. 

Jonathan  Esmonde  stepped  outside,  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  and  held  the  knob  securely  in  his  long. 
"bony  fingers.  His  lips  were  white  and  quivering  with 
passion. 

"You  can't  see  her!":he  cried,  hoarsely;  "you  can't 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL  231" 

0ee  her— nuther  you  ner  any  uv  yer  kind.     Ye  tuck 
(her  away  frum  me;  ye  made  her  a  thing  that  even 
1-he  neighbors,  common,  simple  folk,  points  at 
scorn;  an?  when  ye  had  done  wi'  her  ye  turned 
out  1    She  come  back  to  her  ole  father,  an'  he  is  n 
to  pertect  her  with  all   the  life  in  his  body!     Ye've 
<Jioun'de<i  her  most  t'  death  and  now  ye've  come  fur  her 
Sg'in;  but  ye  can't  have  her!     Ef  ye  try  to  pass  that 
cioor,  I'll  kill  ye  as  1  would  kill  a  mad  dogF 

Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  much  above  a  whisper* 
The  old  man  was  livid  with  rage;  he  shook  a  long, 
quivering  finger  in  Phil's  direction ;  his  teeth  gleaming 
fiercely.     But  the  young  man  was  not  of  the  n 
that  is  easily  daunted.    He  drew  himself  up  pro 

''You  have  no  right  to  condemn  me  unheard,  I 
Esmonde,"  he  said,  with  a  calmness  born  of  the  other 
man's  excitement.     "I  have  not  come  here  to  injure 
your  daughter.    On  the  contrary,  I  have  come  to  make 
her  an  honorable  proposal  of  marriage.     You  must 
remember  me,  sir.     I  was  here  to  call  upon  her  fre- 
quently during  the  summer,  and  I  do  not  remei. 
that  you  had  any  cause  for  complaint  against  rne.     t 
love  your  daughter  and  I  am  sure  she  loves  me." 

"She-cloves— you !" 

"I  do  not  think  I  overestimate  when  I  say  she  does 
1  should  have  asked  her  long  ago  to  be  my  wife  but 
that  a  barrier,  removed  but  a  clay  ago,  stood  between 
.us." 

Jonathan  Esmonde  looked  puzzled,  dumb  with  as- 
Jsxmish'iiient.  He  stood  there  for  a  moment,  passing 
liis  thin  fingers  through  his  gray  hair,  then  said, 
hoarsely,  the  shame  growing  upon  his  countenance: 


"2$2  LIL,   THE    DANCING-GIRL 

"Do  you  know  who  my  daughter  is?  Have  you 
heard  the—" 

"I  was  present  at  her  house  the  evening  you  dis- 
covered her  to  be  a  dancer,  Mr,  Esmonde,"  said  Phil, 
proudly ;  "yet,  in  spite  of  that,  I  have  nothing  but  re- 
spect and  reverence  to  offer  your  daughter.  I  know 
her  to  be  as  pure  as  an  angel,  and  I  offer  testimony  of 
that  belief  when  I  ask  you  now,  sir,  for  her  hand  in 
marriage.  Before  you  consent,  it  may  be  desirable 
that  you  should  have  further  proof  than  my  unsup- 
ported word  of  who  I  am ;  but  while  you  are  making 
your  investigations,  I  beg  that  you  will  not  forbid  my 
seeing  Miss  Esmonde.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor 
that,  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with  my  position,  socially 
and  financially,  I  will  consent  not  to  see  your  daughter 
Again.  It  is  an  untarnished  name  that  I  offer  her." 

Again  Jonathan  Esmonde  hesitated.  He  could  not 
understand  it  at  all.  He  had  heard  the  people  of  the 
village  speak  of  Philip  Sumner,  knew  that  he  was  the 
son  of  the  partner  of  Arnold  Langford,  whom  the 
people  of  Burton  looked  upon  as  little  less  than  a  god. 
It  was  no  adventurer  that  was  asking  the  hand  of  his 
daughter,  and  yet — she  was  a  dancer — one  of  those 
creatures  whom  Jonathan  Esmonde  and  the  rest  or  his 
narrow  world  had  despised.  He  could  scarcely  credit 
the  evidence  of  his  own  senses. 

He  turned  away  suddenly,  sullenly;  he  flung  open 
the  door  of  the  hall  and  crossed  to  that  of  the  still, 
painfully  upright  parlor,  Phil  was  close  at  his  heels, 
intending  to  lose  no  opportunity.  He  threw  open  that 
door  as  well,  and  for  the  first  time  spoke  directly  to 
i!.e  daughter  who  had  so  offended  him. 

"Lillian,"   he  said,   hoarsely,   something  very 


LIL,  THE  DAKCING-GIRL  2J$ 

tears  struggling  in  his  voice,  "yer  father  may   i 
been  harsh  t'  ye  in  the  past ;  but  ye  know  ye  can  trust 
him,  don't  ye,  child  ?" 

A  great  light  of  joy  leaped  into  the  lovely  eyes.  Lil- 
lian leaned  forward,  a  tinge  of  color  rising  to  the  white 
cheeks.  •» 

"Yes,  father,"  she  panted,  not  realizing  what  was 
to  follow. 

"Then  listen.  There  is  a  man  here  who  says  he 
loves  ye  an'  ye  love  him.  Mebby  it's  true,  an'  mcbbys 
it  ain't.  Ye  know  ye  air  welcome  to  a  home  beneath' 
yer  father's  roof  all  the  rest  uv  yer  life.  I  ain't  a- 
in'  that  it's  been  a  very  pleasant  one  in  the  past ;  but, 
with  the  help  o'  the  Lord,  I'll  try  to  make  it  better  in 
the  future.  Ef  you  love  this  man  an'  want  t'  be  his 
wife,  I  ain't  got  nuthin'  t'  say;  but  ef  you  don't,  yer 
father  is  here  t'  pertect  ye." 

lie  stepped  aside,  his  arms  folded  stiffly  upon  his! 
breast,  his  lips  shut  with  a  tightness  that  sent  every 
drop  of  blood  frorr  them. 

Lillian  looked  beyond  him.     Her  excitement  could 
scarcely  be  controlled.    She  did  not  know  who  it 
that  she  was  to  see,  but  a  cry  of  joy  issued  from 
lips  that  left  no  room  for  doubt  when  her  eyes  rested 
upon  Phil's  face. 

He  reached  her  side  at  one  bound,  and  falling  upon 
hi?  knees  in  spite  of  those  who  witnessed,  flung  his 
arms  about  her  waist. 

"Thank  God,  I  have  found  you,  my  darling!"  lie 
cried,  passionately.  "I  have  been  well-nigh  mad  with 
fear.  Don't  shrink  from  me,  Lillian — love — wife? 
The  last  barrier  has  been  removed;  nothing  statute 


234  LIL>   THE    DANCING-GIRE 

now  between  us  and  our  happiness,  except  the    •  ,. 
of  man  ratifying  the  will  of  God." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

There  was  no  delay  in  Lil's  recovery  after  that; 
There  is  no  restorer  like  that  which  happiness  brings, 
and  -she  was  happy.  It  seemed  that  there  was  nothing1 
mnder  heaven  that  could  add  to  her  perfect  joy  and 
content. 

She  had  Phil!  She  knew  that  his  love  was  wholly 
liers,  and  that  his  companionship  was  to  be  hers  dur- 
ing all  the  years  of  her  life.  And  then  her  father 
had  forgiven  her.  He  appeared  to  be  changed^  too — * 
softened,  more  pliable,  almost  gentle.  He  came  in 
one  day  as  she  sat  beside  the  window,  and  with  an 
expression  upon  his  face  that  was  shy  as  that  of  a 
school -boy,  placed  a  handful  of  flowers  in  her  lap- 
that'  he-  had  purchased  from  the  village  florist. 

The  tears  came  to  her  eyes  for  very  thanksgiving; 
'She  could  not  speak;  but  he  saw,  understood,  and 
bending  over,  kissed  her  upon  the  brow.  It  was  more 
to  her  than  the  wildest  demonstration  would  have 
been  from  another  man. 

And1  then,  too,  that  awful  fear  of  discovery  ha$ 
vanished — that  terrible  nightmare  that  had  haunted 
the  ftionths  of  her  later  life.  The  horrible  shadow  of 
a  lie  was  lifted  from  her  life  and  she  was  free  of  soul 
again!  She  was  no  longer  haunted  by  conscience,  no 
longer  tortured  by  concealments;  for  "concealments" 
are  like  the  ghost  of  Banquo,  that  will  not  down. 


LIL,  THE  DANCING-GIRL,  235 

il  had  obtained  from  her  a  not  unwilling  consent 
•n  earl}/-  marriage — a.  marriage  that  was  to  take 
e  in  the  village  church,  without  any  pomp  and  not 
a  ceremony.    He  had  gone  back  to  New  York,  at 
iier  request,  to  tell  his  parents  himself  of  their  engage- 
ment and  to  plead  for  their  sanction. 

"If  my  own  father  has  despised  me  because  of  the 
I  lead,  Phi!,  how  much  more  should  I  expect  it 
of  yours,"  she  said  to  him,  gently.  "Make  them  un- 
derstand, if  you  can,  that  I  am  not  quite  so  black  a£ 
I  have  been  painted,  and  come  to  me  with  their  con- 
sent to  our  union.  I  could  never  bear  to  rob  them  of 
you,  dear." 

And  he  had  gone. 

There  was  not  much  difficulty  in  gaining  their  con- 

They  felt  that  something  was  due  him  for  the 

that  they  had  unintentionally  made  him  suffer, 

and  an  even  greater  amount  of  confidence  in  him  had 

i  established  than  ever  before. 

"If  you  feel  that  your  happiness  depends  upon  this 

srtarriage,  my  son/*  his  mother  said  to  him  as  he  knelt 

by  Her  side,  "I  have  no  objection  to  urge.      Your 

happiness  is  our  consideration  in  life,  our  one  desire, 

—we  trust  you." 
Tie  kissed  her  gently. 

"That  is  like  my  own  little  mother,"  he  said,  ten- 
derly. "And  you  will  come  to  our  wedding?  You 
-\\-\\\  meet  her  before  she  becomes  my  wife?" 

"Yes,  my  darling.  I  will  go  to  your  wedding,  and 
I  will  try  to  feel  that  I  am  gaining  a  daughter  instead 
of  losing  my  son." 

"That  you  never  could  do,  dear  little  one!  You 
have  the  right  and  title  by  deed  of  gift  to  your  placfc 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

in.  my  heart,  oi  which  not  even  death  could  rob  you.* 

Then  he  arose  to  grasp  his  father's  hand. 

"I"  confess  you  have  surprised  me/'  the  elder  min 
.said.  "1  will  not  deny  that  I  should  have  preferred 
another  selection ;  but,  after  all,  you  are  the  only  one 
to  be  consulted.  You  are  no  longer  a  boy.  But  is 
there  not  a  rumor  at  the  club  that  Kirk  Maitland  is 
the  betrothed  husband  of  this  lady?'* 

Phil's  face  flushed. 

'1  think  there  may  be,"  he  replied,  a  little  sternly; 
'"but  the  rumor  will  be  quickly  corrected.  The  scoim* 
<?rel  has  tried  in  every  way  that  lies  in  his  power  to 
come  between  us,  hesitating  at  no  lie  that  would  ac* 
complish  his  end ;  but  it  has  failed,  thank  Heaven. 
He  took  advantage  of  my  engagement  to  Miss  Lang- 
iford  to  work  upon  Lillian's  feelings  until  he  did  obtain 
some  sort  of  promise  from  her  while  she  was  under 
the  influence  of  delirium.  By  the  way,  has  Arnold 
Langford  sailed  yet?" 

"He  goes  on  the  'Etruria/  on  Wednesday  of  next 
week.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  completely  crushed  and 
broken." 

"You  can  not  expect  that  I  shall  have  sympathy?''* 

"Certainly  not.  I  consider  him  the  calmest  and 
most  dastardly  villain  that  I  have  ever  known;  but, 
as  Clarke  says,  he  overreached  himself  at  last." 

44 The  family  go  with  him?" 

"Oh,  yes!  Olive  seems  to  take  her  disgrace  very 
tnr.ch  more  easily  than  the  old  man  does.  It  would 
not  surprise  me  to  hear  of  her  engagement  to  some 
nobleman  or  other  in  the  near  future." 

"It  would  seem  a  heinous  crime  to  permit  a  man 
to  marry  her,"  said  Phil,  musingly. 


LIL,  THE   DANCING-GIRL 

'You  are  right/'   assented   his   father;   "and   yet, 
p-hat  is  one  to  do?    We  can't  destroy  the  only 
of  reformation  for  her." 

Phil  shrugged  his  shoulders  lightly. 

"There  will  never  be  a  reformation  of  conscience 
with  her,"  he  said,  quietly.  "Lack  of  necessity,  ot% 
opportunity,  may  prevent  her  doing  it  again,  but 
is  all.  If  she  should  marry  a  rich  man,  it  may  be 
that  she  will  commit  no  further  crimes,  but  the  old 
stain  will  be  there  forever/' 

It  was  a  pretty  wedding  that  which  took  place  in 
the  village  church  a  month  later.  Indian  summer  had 
set  in.  The  trees  were  green  and  yellow  and  red 
the  superb  shading  of  glorious  autumn.  The  air  was 
balmy  with  the  intoxicating  elixir  of  old  wine.  It 
crept  into  the  veins,  almost  oppressing  one  with  the 
sweetness  of  happiness  and  of  hope  and  of  rest. 

The  simple  little  frame  church  was  decorated  by  the 
village  maidens,  and  while  tiiere  might  have  been  a 
more  artistic  arrangement  of  vines  and  flowers  by  a 
florist  who  was  an  adept  in  the  business,  there  could 
Slave  been  nothing  sweeter. 

There  was  neither  bride-maids,  maids  of  honor,  nor 
•ushers.  People  found  their  seats  for  themselves,  "first 
come,  first  served,"  and  long  before  the  /hour  ap- 
pointed the  little  edifice  was  filled  to  the  doors. 

There  was  no  organ  to  peal  forth  the  wedding 
ffnarch,  but  the  villagers  noticed  that  about  five  min- 
utes before  the  bridal  party  entered  Amy  came  in 
leaning  heavily  upon  the  arm  of  a  very  pale  but  very 
erect  man  who  had  arrived  the  evening  before.  They 
sat  down  in  a  pew  that  had  been  reserved  for  the 


LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

families  of  the  contracting  parties,  and  Amy  leaned 
toward  him. 

"Isn't  the  church  lovely  ?"  she  asked,  enthusiasti- 
cally.    ''Lillian's  friends   did  it  all.     Oh,  Mr.  diet- 
wynd,  I   didn't  think  that  morning  when  she  came  ' 
home  that  we  should  ev^r  be  so  happy  again  as.  this* 
You  heard  of  it,  didn't  you  r"  , 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  even  hi:>  whisper  a  trifle  husky. 
"Stunner  told  me." 

"Isn't  he  the  most  charming  man!"  continued  Amy, 
scarcely  able  to  repress  her  excitement.  "We  met  him 
here  in  Burton,  you  know,  when  my  sister  was  home 
for  her  vacation.  I  was  simply  crazy  for  her  to 
marry  him  then,  and  now  to  think  she  is  really  going 
to  do  it r 

"He  is  a  charming  man/' 

"That  doesn't  half  express  it.  He  is  £he  most  lovely 
man  in  the  whole  world !  He  is  going  to  take  Lily  to 
Egypt  and  the  Holy  Land,  and  to  Persia  an:l  Russia, 
and — oh,  everywhere  in  the  whole  world !  And— I 
wonder  if  I  may  tell  you  a  secret,  Mr.  Chctwynd?" 
He  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  There  \vas  a. world 
of  sadness  in  it;  but  in  spite  of  her  sympathy  for 
every  human  thing,  Amy  was  too  happy  to  see. 

"Do  you  think  that  I  am  worthy  of  trust  ?"  he  asked 
quietly. 

"Indeed  I  do.  Lillian  has  told  me  a  great  deal  o$ 
you,  and  of  how  royally  good  you  have  always  beett 
to  her.  Well,  my  secret  is  this: -while  she  is  gone 
away — abroad,  you  know — I  am  to  go  back  to  the 
New  York  Hospital  for  treatment.  The  doctors  told 
rne  when  I  was  there  before  you  know,  that  they 
make  oae  almost  as  good  as  new.  I  don't  wanfj 


LIL,   THE  DANCING-GIRL  233 

Lillian  to  know  a  thing  about  it,  but  to  find  me  well 
Avhen  she  returns.  And  what  do  you  think?  Father 
is  going  to  send  me !" 

"Is  he?" 

"Yes.  He  is  the  most  changed  man  you  ever -saw, 
in  all  your  life.  They  say  it  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows 
no  one  good,  but  I  think  there  was  never  an  ill  wind 
<in  all  this  world  that  has  blown  so  much  good  as  this 
one.  Hush !  there  they  are/' 

Tfiere  was  never  anything  simpler  than  the  cere- 

7.    Lillian  was  not  even  in  the  conventional  white 

of  bridal  robes,  but  wore  a  traveling  costume  that -had 

been  sent  to  her  by  one  of  her  old  New  York  dress- 

•makers.     It  was  dainty  and  beautiful,  and  as  artistic 

was  charming. 

There  was  never  a  happier  nor  a  handsomer  man 

Philip  Simmer,  as  he  stood  before  the  country 

clergyman,  promising,  with  a  fervor  and  earnestness 

touching,  to  love  and  protect  the  dainty,  ex- 

te  girl  that  stood  by  his  side  through  all  the  years 

of  their  live-. 

It  was  over  at  last,  and  the  old-fashioned  congratu- 
lations were  being  spoken  by  the  country-folk. 

Halford  Sumner  stood  a  little  ajxirt  with  his  little 
blind  wife,  she  with  tears  in  her  pretty  blue  eyes.  He 
leaned  toward  her  a  trifle  as  he  whispered : 

"Darling,  how  I  wish  that  you  could  see  :  Phil's 
wife — our  new  daughter.  She  is  the  most  beautiful 
girl  I  ever  saw,  I  think,  save  the  little  one  that  be- 
came my  bride  so  many  years  ago/' 

"And  as  charming  as  she  is  beautiful,  Halford." 

"Yes,  dear.     I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  Phil's 


.^4O  LIL,    THE    DANCING-GIRL 

\ 

choice.  The  world  may  smile,  but  Phil  will  laugh-* 
>v)!h  happiness." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Philip  Simmer  were  to  return  to  iNew 
acrk  by  private  car  in  time  to  catch  the  outgoing 
steamer  for  Liverpool.  The  station  platform  was 
•filled  with  people,  handkerchiefs  were  waving,  good- 
byes being  shouted,  kisses  thrown.  Beside  the  vesti** 
luile  Chetwynd  stood,  and  it  was  his  hand  that  Phil 
grasped  the  last. 

od-bye,  old  friend,"  he  said,  with  a  little  tremu- 
tene  fluttering  through  his  voice ;  "true  as  Da- 
i-l     God  bless  you!     There  will  always  be  a  place 
cit  rny  fireside  preserved  for  you  I" 

"Be  worthy  of  her,"  Chetwynd  returned,  below  his 
breath.    kTt  is  the  only  request  I  have  to  make." 

Then  he  kissed  Phil  upon  the  cheek. 

:  revoir,  little  one,*"  he  said,  forcing  his  voice  to/ 
.     "Don't  forget  old  Chet  in  all  your  happi- 
ness." 

•ocked  at  him  a  trifle  wistfully. 

"Forget  you!"  she  answered,  brokenly.  "You  have 
been  loo  much  to  me  for  that — everything,  almost.  L 
>Y3fih  I  could  tell  you — " 

jf  She  could  not  complete  the  sentence  in  words,  but 
lie  understood,  and  as  the  train  rolled  away  he  stood 
there  staring  after  it,  his  eyeballs  burning  with  the 
sgcny  he  was  too  loyal  to  acknowledge  even  to  him- 
self. 

He  turned  to  Amy  with  a  smile  and  drew  her  hand 
closely  through  his  arm  to  assist  her  back  to  the. 
carriage. 


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THE  HART  SERIES 

*»  jtemn  Libbey  Miss  Caroline  Hart  Mrs.  E.  Burke  Collins  Mrs.  Ates.  Me^'e 

-«•-  M.  Braeme  Barbara  Howard  Lucy  Randall  Comfort  Mary  E.  Bryan  Mas!®  Cost 

Was  there  ever  a  galaxy  of  aames  representing  such  authors  offered  to  the  public  before? 
H  of  writing  stories  that  arouse  tue  emotions,  in  sentiment,  passion  and  love,  tLeir  books  excel  any  th 
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.anapped  at  the  Altar,  1  aura  Jean  Libbey. 
v^'adiola's  Two  'Covers,  Laura  Jean  Libbey. 
— Lil,  the  Dancing  GH,  Caroline  Hart. 
—The  Woman  Y/b    Car  e  Between,  Caroline  Hart, 
^— Aleta's  Terrible  Seer  _t,  Laura  Jean  Libbey. 
— For  Love  or  Honor,  Care  line  Hart. 
— The  Romance  of  Enola,  Laura  Jean  Libbey. 
L— A  Handsome  Engineer's  Flirtation,  Laura  J.  Libbey 
^-A  Little  Princess,  Caroline  Hart. 
—Was  She  Sweetheart  or  Wife,  Laura  Jean  Libbey, 
— Nameless  Bess,  Caroline  Hart. 
— Delia's  Handsome  Lover,  Laura  Jean  Libbey. * 
— That  Awful  Scar,  Caroline  Hart. 
— Flora  Garland's  Courtbhip,  Laura  Jean  Libbey^ 
— Love's  Rugged  Path,  Caroline  Hart. 
—My  Sweetheart  Idabell,  Laura  Jean  Libbey  o 
— Married  at  Sight,  Caroline  Hart. 
— Pretty  Madcap  Dorothy,  Laura  Jean  Libbey 
— Her  Right  to  Love,  Caroline  Hart. 
—The  Loan  of  a  Lover,  Laura  Jean  Libbey 
—The  Game  of  Love,  Caroline  Hart. 
—A  Fatal  Elopement,  Laura  Jean  Libbey 
—Vendetta,  Marie  Corelli. 
—The  Girl  He  Forsook,  Laura  Jean  Libbey 
— Redeemed  by  Love,  Caroline  Harts 
—A  Wasted  Love,  Caroline  Hart. 
—A  Dangerous  Flirtation,  Laura  Jean  Libbey 
—A  Haunted  Life,  Caroline  Hart. 
— Garnetta,  the  Si  ver  King's  Daughter,  L.  J.  Libbey 
—A  R^stance  of  Two  Worlds,  Marie  Corelli. 
— Her  Ransom,  Charles  Garvice. 
—A  Hidden  Terror,  Caroline  Hart. 
—Flora  Temple,  Laura  Jean  Libbey. 
— Claribel's  Love  Story,  Charlotte  M.  Braeme 
—Pretty  Rose  Hall,  Laura  Jean  Libbey. 
—The  Mystery  of  Suicide  Place,  Mrs.  Alex.  Miller. 
—Cora,  the  Pet  of  the  Regiment,  Laura  Jean  Libbey. 
— The  Vengeance  of  Love,  Caroline  Hart. 
—Jolly  Sally  Pendleton,  Laura  Jean  Libbey. 
—A  Bitter  Reckoning,  Mrs.  E.  Burke  Collins. 
—Kathleen's  Diamonds,  Mrs.  Alex. McVeigh  Miller= 
— Angela's  Lover,  Caroline  Hart. 
—Lancaster's  Choice,  Mrs.  Alex.  McVeigh  Miller. 
— The  Madness  of  Love,  Caroline  Hart. 
—Little  Sweetheart,  Mrs.  Alex.  McVeigh  Millere 
—A  Working  Girl's  Honor,  Caroline  Hart. 
—The  Mystery  of  Colde  Fell,  Charlotte  M.  Braeme 
—The  Rival  Heiresses,  Caroline  Hart. 
-Little  Nobody,  Mrs.  Alex.  McVeigh  Miller. 
—Her  Husband's  Ghost,  Mary  E.  Bryan. 
--Sold  for  Gold,  Mrs.  E.  Burke  Collins. 
—Her  Husbaad's  Secret,  Lucy  Randall  Comfort 

•=A  Passionate  Love,  Barabara  Howard. 

-From  Want  to  Wealth,  Caroline  Hart. 

-Loved  You  Better  Than  You  Knew,  Mrs.  A<=  Miller 
— Irene's  Vow,  Charlotte  M.  Braeme. 
—She  Loved  Not  Wisely,  Carolbe  Hart. 
—Molly's  Treachery,  Mrs.  Alex.  McVeigh  Millere 
—Was  It  Wrong?  Barbara  Howard. 
— The  Midnight  Marriage,  Mrs.  Sumner  Haydea 
— Ailsa,  Wenona  Gilman. 

—Her  Dark  Inheritance,  Mrs.  E.  Burke  Collnu 
-Viola's  Vanitv,  Mrs.  Alex.  McVeigh  Miller. 
—The  Ghost  of  the  Hurricane  Hills,  Mary  E.  Bryan. 


69— A  Woman  Wronged,  Caroline  Hart. 

70— Was  She  His  Lawful  Wife?    Barbara  Howard 

71 — Val,  the  Tomboy,  Wenona  Gilman. 

72— The  Richmond  Secret,  Mrs.  E.  Burke  CoMwr 

73— Edna's  Vow,  Charlotte  M.  Stanley, 

74 — Heart's  of  Fire,  Caroline  Hart. 

75 — St.  Elmo,  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

76— Nobody's  Wife,  Ca*-olin-  Hart. 

77— Ishmael,  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N  Southworth, 

78— Self-Raised,  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.  Southwort* 

79— Pretty  Little  Rosebud,  Barbara  Howard 

80 — Inez,  Augusta  J.  Evans, 

81— The  Girl  Wife,  Mrs.  Sumner  Hayden. 

82— Dora  Thorne,  Charlotte  VI.  Braeme. 

83 — followed  by  Fate,  Lucy  Randall  Comfort. 

84— India,  or  the  Pearl  of  P  arl  River,  Southwortfe 

85— Mad  Kingsley's  Heir,  Rlrs.  E.  Burke  Collins, 

86— The  Missing  Bride,  Mn   E.  D.E.  No  South  wort 

87— Wicked  Sir  Dare,  Charl  ;  Garvice. 

88— Daintie's  Cruel  Rival?    v!rS.  Alex.  McVc 

89— Lillian's  Vow,  Carolin     1.  ,t. 

90 — Mis=  Estcourt,  Charles  ^orviceo 

91 — Beulah,  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

92—  Daphane's  Fate,  Mrs.  E  Burke  Colfe 

93 — Wormwood,  Marie  Coreui. 

94— Nellie,  Charles  Garvice. 

95— His  Legal  Wife,  Mary  E  Bryaa 

96— Macaria,  Augusta  J.  Evtns. 

97 — Lost  and  Found,  Chariot  re  M.  Stanley. 

9.8— The  Curse  of  Clifton,  Mrs.  Southworth. 

99— That  Strange  Girl.  Charles  Garvice. 
190— T'ic  Lovers  at  Storm  Cattle,  Mrs.  M.  A.  Colla 
101— Ma!»erie's  Mistake,  Luc;   Randall  Comfort 
102 — The  Curse  of  Pocahontas,  Wenona  Gilms.T 
103— My  Love  Kitty,  Charles  Garvice. 
1.04— His  Fairy  Queen,  Elizabeth  Stiles. 
105 — From  Worse  than  Death,  Caroline  Hart* 
106— Audr;y  Fane's  Love,  Mn,.  E.  Burke  Collins 
107 — Viom*  and  Orange  Blossoms,  Charlotte  P.-»< 
108— F/chel  Dreeme,  Frank  Corey, 
109— Thr'.e  Girls,  Mary  E.  Bryan. 
110 — A  Strange  Marriage,  Caroline  Hart 
II. .--Violet,  Chafes  Garvice. 

112 — The  Ghost  of  the  Power,  Mrs.  Sumner  Haydec 
113 — Baptised  v  ith  a  Curse,  Edith  Stewart  DrewT 
1!4— A  Tragic  Blunder,  Mrs.  H.  Lovett  Camera- 
US— Tl.e  Secret  of  Her  Life,  Edward  Jenkins 
116 — My  Guardian,  Ada  Cambridge. 
117 — A  Last  Love,  Georges  Ohnet. 
lit  — His  Angel,  Henry  Hermar. 
lit  —Pretty  Miss  Bcllew,  The- .  Gift 
120— Blind  Love,  Wilkie  Collins. 
121 — A  Life's  Vistake,  Mrs.  H.  Lovett  C« 
122— Won  By  Waiting,  Edna  LyaD 
123— Passions  Slave,  King. 
124 — Under  Currents,  Duchess 
125— False  Vow,  Braeme. 
126— The  Belle  of  Lynne,  Braeme, 
127 — Lord  Lynne's  Choice,  Braeme 
128 — Blossom  and  Fruit,  Braeme. 
129 — Weaker  Than  a  Woman,  Braeme. 
130— Tempest  and  Sunshine,  Mary  J.  Holme* 
131 — Lady  Muriel's  Secret,  Braeme. 
132 — A  Mad  Love,  Braeme. 


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